


Separation

by SlytherinsDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Cultural References, Established Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food, Forbidden Love, Frottage, Greece, Humor, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Public Sex, Rimming, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sexting, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Texting, Sibling Incest, Taiwan, Texting, Traveling fluff, Vacation, holmescest, medical references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 69,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock are in a secret relationship. Duty calls, and Mycroft is forced to do some legwork around the world. Sherlock copes with his lover's absence.------------Where Sherlock and Mycroft deal with their secret relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Holmescest fanfic that I've ever written (although not the first one I finished - still working on it!). It's also the first fanfic that I've written that is marked explicit with sex scenes although if you've read my other fics - I've clearly jumped off the deep end since then.
> 
> The premise of this fic has changed since its conception. I originally intended it to be an 8 chapter fic about Sherlock coping about being apart from Mycroft after they've begun a romantic relationship with each other. Now, it spans beyond that. 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

**Day Zero: Mycroft's House, Master Bedroom**

It is habit that rouses Sherlock from slumber. Blinking drowsily, he unlocks his phone on the nightstand next to Mycroft’s king-sized bed. Normally, this would be the time where Sherlock slips out back to Baker Street, with John Watson none the wiser of Sherlock’s newfound and illicit recreational activities.

But, today is different.

His brother sleeps on, snoring softly. Sherlock watches, memorizing every minute idiosyncrasy that is Mycroft in repose. There is a possessive bruise marking the skin at the junction of clavicle and the left sternocleidomastoid. Sherlock could feel his cock filling as he thinks about the carnal acts that has left such visible evidence behind.

The distance between his brother and him suddenly feels too far, and Sherlock rolls over until his face is buried in his brother’s shoulder. He inadvertently grinds his hard cock against his brother’s thigh.

“Mm… Sherlock…” Mycroft mumbles, inducing Sherlock to rub a little harder.

Generally, Sherlock prefers his brother awake and consenting when it came to sex. But, alas, time is ticking. As much as Sherlock wants his brother’s prick up his bum, it is more feasible for him to top in the configuration that they are in. He pulls down Mycroft’s pajama bottoms, and presses his finger against his brother’s hole, which is still loose and wet from last night. Sherlock reaches over for the bottle of lubricant, flips the cap and pours some on his fingers. He penetrates his brother with his index finger, followed by the middle one. They slip in easily, and Sherlock adds a third.

Mycroft writhes in pleasure as Sherlock’s fingers brush against his prostate with precision. Sherlock withdraws his fingers and watches amusedly as Mycroft’s unconscious form seems to protest at the sudden absence. Sherlock slicks his own cock with the remaining lube. Then, with one smooth and practiced motion, Sherlock pushes into Mycroft. Once in, he slowly rolls his hips, determined to draw out the experience for as long as he possibly could. He savours the delicious heat of his brother’s walls around him.

_How am I going to survive without this?_

His brother is leaving today and returning who knows when. There is a long list of engagements and legwork that Mycroft has put off in the last few years. And, international political fuckups caused by incompetent nincompoops that needs to be smoothed over by Mycroft’s brand of shadowy diplomacy for the good of England.

Sherlock wants to cry.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft is evidently awake.

Mycroft pushes back to impale himself deeper onto Sherlock’s shaft, but Sherlock forcefully holds him back, determined to keep it slow. Sherlock mumbles something that sounds oddly like patience. Mycroft lets out a huff of annoyance which sounds more like a needy whine to Sherlock’s ears.

“Not like this, brother mine.” Mycroft finally pulls himself off Sherlock’s cock. “I want to see you.”

They readjust. Mycroft lies on his back after shedding off his sleepwear, and Sherlock gets up from the bed. They are gazing intensely at each other’s eyes, as if the secrets to the universe are inscribed within. Sherlock slowly glides into Mycroft again, not once breaking eye contact. Their lovemaking remains at this infuriating adagio, but there is a gradual crescendo of desperation building up in both. Sherlock’s eyes plead _please don’t leave me_ , and Mycroft’s say _I wish I had a choice_. The non-verbal conversation continues in a similar vein for several minutes, before the tingling warmth accumulating within Sherlock forces him to pick up the pace. Sherlock reaches over for Mycroft’s neglected cock, but his brother’s eyes tells him that it isn’t necessary. Obligingly, Sherlock changes the angle of penetration slightly, and fucks his brother brutally into orgasm. Sherlock comes shortly afterwards, the contractions of Mycroft’s muscles strangling the seed out of his cock.

Sherlock collapses on top of his brother. They are both panting, and the stickiness sandwiched between their bodies is slowly fusing them together. Neither cared. For the first time today, Sherlock kisses his brother. Neither cared about the morning breath. Sherlock is convinced that he pulled something in his groin during the last five thrusts, but it is worth it to see big brother come untouched. It is a rare enough sight.

Wordlessly, they both stumble their way into the shower. There is more kissing, but the emphasis is mostly on cleaning. They wash each other; Mycroft is careful enough to use Sherlock’s body wash, shampoo and conditioner on his little brother, just in case a certain flatmate gets too nosy about Sherlock’s nighttime adventures. They towel each other off, before attending to the other intricacies of their respective toilets. Mycroft heads towards his wardrobe, but Sherlock gestures for him to stop. The consulting detective hunts for all the clothes that Mycroft needs for the day and starts dressing his brother in his glorious armour, complete with sleeve garters, in the fastidious ritualistic order that Mycroft follows every day. Sherlock’s touches linger longer than necessary, but Mycroft doesn’t have any snarky banter to offer. Sherlock ties a blue tie with subtle shades of other colours around his brother’s neck, in a full Windsor – just the way his big brother prefers it.

Mycroft finds some of Sherlock’s clothes in the wardrobe and returns the favour. A blue shirt like the shade of Mycroft’s tie gets put on, followed by boxers and trousers. His suit jacket goes on last. Sherlock puts on his own socks and shoes, and the pair of them go downstairs for breakfast. Later, when his brother leaves, Sherlock will throw the bedsheets and any soiled clothing into the laundry machine, to keep their secrets from Mycroft’s housekeeper who visits weekly.

Breakfast is a simple affair of the dim sum leftovers from the night before. They eat silently, neither willing to navigate the minefield of sentiment for the time being. Simultaneously, both avoid looking at their phones, regardless of the number of notifications mounting up.

It is Mycroft who finally breaks the silence.

“Let’s take a selfie.”

Sherlock arches a sardonic eyebrow – surprised that Mycroft knows what a selfie is. He bites back the snark.

“Humour me, little brother.” Mycroft has already set up the camera application on his phone.

Sherlock nods, and they position themselves accordingly. At least with a selfie, one could easily explain why they are standing so closely together. Mycroft checks the resultant picture and is pleased. They make a strikingly handsome pair.

“We match.” Sherlock finally sees the connection between Mycroft’s tie and his shirt.

“Not a coincidence, brother dear.” Mycroft smiles. “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“I expect pictures from your travels.” Sherlock says, “Now that I know you are capable of operating a camera.”

“And, you shall receive.” Mycroft promises, “I will miss you, brother mine.”

Sherlock finally says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Mycroft kisses him. “I will text you when I get to Tokyo.”

Sherlock presses a second kiss. “I wish I could go with you.”

“As do I. As do I, lover mine.” Mycroft says with great vigour. “Unfortunately, it is all work, and very little play. But when I come back, I will take some time off for us.”

“When are you coming back?” Sherlock asks.

For the first time, Mycroft looks incredibly sad, “Hopefully in three weeks. I will let you know when I know.”

Sherlock nods. There is one last long kiss, and Mycroft is reluctantly out the door, luggage in tow.

.

.

**Day Zero: 221B Baker Street**

Sherlock climbs the steps up to his flat, bearing groceries – and he hopes that the shock of actually doing the shopping for once would direct John’s attention away from the irregularities of Sherlock’s gait. He opens his flat door with his key and sees John in the middle of feeding Rosie her breakfast. Sherlock hangs his coat on the rack and walks over to the fridge to put the milk, eggs and other assorted groceries away.

“Oh, wow, Sherlock. Did you actually buy the groceries?” John sounds like a divine miracle has occurred.

“It is something I am occasionally capable of doing.” Sherlock remarks.

To be fair, there were three glorious weekends where Mycroft and he had played house, and they had gone to the shops to buy groceries and cook together like any other couple. John had gone to Dublin for one of those weekends, and Sherlock had claimed confidential case for his brother for the other two. Of course, John was never to know that Sherlock was capable of cooking, and other domestic chores.

Sherlock finishes putting away the teabags, and carefully walks over to Rosie’s highchair. He sits down next to her. He looks fondly at her.

“Hello, my little bee. How are you today?”

Rosie babbles happily at Sherlock while John looks at Sherlock strangely.

“Did you injure your leg or something, Sherlock?” John asks; all doctorly concern.

“Might have pulled something.” Sherlock decides that the best course was honesty, “But it is all fine, honestly.”

“Hm… You didn’t have it yesterday.” John thinks. “I don’t think you took up a new sport. Or wait, you could have –“

Sherlock winces. It isn’t a challenge at all to deduce what John’s next words were. “Remember, Rosie is here.”

John’s eyes light up with glee. “Oh, my goodness, you did! Not the virgin anymore?”

Sherlock groans. This is intolerable. He texts Mycroft.

_Well, John has discovered that I had sex last night. – SH_

“Are you seeing someone?” John continues his interrogation.  

“It was a one-night-stand, John.” Sherlock says casually.

He looks at his phone again.

_It was inevitable. Your walk this morning practically screams you had sex, little brother. – MH_

_I told him it was a one-time thing. – SH_

“Bird like Irene?” John finally starts feeding himself after getting Rosie sorted.

“I would hope you’d know my sexual preferences after all these years together.” Sherlock says dourly.

Another lightbulb lights up in John’s brain. “Oh! Girlfriends not your area. A bloke!”

_Your paramour would be most displeased if last night was a one-time thing. – MH_

“Yes, a bloke – John.” Sherlock parrots. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with a woman.”

_You know it isn’t. Also, it would be easy to sell since my paramour is leaving the country for the foreseeable future. No sex on the horizon! – SH_

“There was Irene and… what’s her name – Janine?” John takes another bite of toast.

“Cases, John.” Sherlock says. “You know it is easy for me to play a persona, and I have to admit that Irene was at the minimum, intellectually stimulating.”

_There better not be sex on the horizon! – MH_

_Noted, brother dear. – SH_

“Tell me something,” John resumes the conversation, “Was last night your first time?”

“No.” Sherlock sticks with the truth. “Sometimes the transport has needs.”

As out of date the concept of virginity was, Sherlock did indeed lose his with Mycroft when they got together a few months ago. Sherlock has long ceased with the notion of the transport after all those horrible games at Sherrinford. He gets up from the table to make a cup of tea for himself.

_Now John wants to know if I lost my virginity last night. – SH_

“Do you bottom or top?” John keeps asking.

Sherlock cringes inwardly. Why do people think everything is black and white all the time? Of course, there are people with preferences for bottoming and topping, and some people avoided penetrative intercourse altogether.

_I can guarantee that you were absolutely not a virgin last night. – MH_

“I do both. But I topped last night, if you must know.” Sherlock boils a fresh pot of water for his tea. “You do realize the next time you find a girlfriend, I am going to be incredibly nosy as well?”

_Ditto, lover mine. – SH_

“Sorry, sorry.” John apologizes good-naturedly, obviously not sorry at all. “It is just that seeing you of all people do the walk of shame is so… unexpected.” 

_Plane is taxiing, I will talk to you later. Love you, brother dear. – MH_

“There’s no shame in sex.” Sherlock says with a wry grin.

“No, but it’s nice that we actually had a chat like this. Nice to know that the great Sherlock Holmes enjoys sex like the rest of us mortals.”

Sherlock makes a face which Rosie laughs at and follows it up with a rude gesture. John tuts, covering Rosie’s innocent eyes, even though his eyes are sparkling with merriment.

_< 3 you too. Safe travels. – SH _

Mycroft hates emoticons. As does Sherlock. But he knows that Mycroft could never complain about this one. It is the perfect equilibrium of brotherly annoyance and lover’s sentiment in two characters.

The water finishes boiling, and Sherlock makes his tea. He brings it back over to the table. Before he sips it, or rather before John asks him another invasive question, his phone rings.

Lestrade.

Perfect.

A case to get him out of this hell.

And probably about that new serial killer too.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ends up in the hospital. Mycroft keeps his promise to his brother. John makes Sherlock's life a tad more complicated. What else is new? :)

**Day 6: St Bartholomew's Hospital, Emergency Department**

“You are such a bloody idiot you know, Sherlock!” John paces about the tiny and cramped hospital room, hand gestures flying in every haphazard direction. “You should have waited for us.”

Sherlock winces as a physician works on placing a long series of stitches in the lateral side of his abdominal lower left quadrant. The lidocaine barely takes the edge off the pain. In his right forearm, an IV transfuses Rhesus negative type A blood into his weakened body. The hemorrhage had been nasty, but they had made it to the hospital before Sherlock had lost consciousness.

“You are fucking lucky that the knife missed everything essential! Even the god-damned spleen!” John gets louder. He then stops and exclaims more quietly, “God. And the killer was a physician too. A bloody hematologist.”  

Sherlock is in no position to retort. He is exhausted, running on catnaps, caffeine and the occasional energy bar that Lestrade or John had foisted upon him. Not to mention the blood loss. And if John is already blowing his top, he dreads Mycroft’s response. After all, this is the first time he has been in the hospital since Mycroft and he had gotten together.

In hindsight, he may have been stupid. Although, he is sure that even if he waited just a few seconds more, the fourth victim, a young girl, would have died. Thanks to Sherlock’s split-second decision, she had been whisked up to surgery, and will more than likely survive her harrowing experience with London’s latest iteration of the charming psychopath.

Sherlock continues to reflect. The serial killer had been brilliant; he would lure his victims into a specially prepared vacant flat, drug them with flunitrazepam in a drink or etorphine via injection, tie them up, wake them and then commence having his depraved fun with them. Before the victim died, he would take some blood and make a blood smear – a souvenir. Ultimately, it had been a mistake with the method the killer used to procure his drugs that had led to his undoing. From there, it took Sherlock four long days to unravel the exquisite care that the killer had taken into concealing his little hobby. At the denouement, Sherlock had burst into what the killer had termed the ‘kill room’ and interrupted the latest torture session. He had managed to knock out the killer with a crowbar but took a reflexive knife slash to the abdomen for his troubles. What happened afterwards, he couldn’t remember.

“They want you to stay overnight.” John’s voice cuts through Sherlock’s reverie.

Sherlock gives a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

John looks relieved and surprised by the uncharacteristic lack of fuss that Sherlock would normally exhibit during these situations.

Sherlock fixes an eye to the fourth occupant of the room. “Lestrade, can I keep the slides?”

“You can have all the ones that weren’t made from the blood of the victims.” Lestrade states firmly, in a voice that left no room for negotiation.

“You aren’t any fun, Lestrade.” Sherlock pouts his displeasure.

“It’s part of the evidence we need for the prosecution, Sherlock.” Lestrade explains with the air of infinite patience.

“Where’s my phone?” Sherlock asks abruptly.

John hands the phone to Sherlock. “Here.”

“Well folks, I am all done here.” The physician has finished all the stitches. “Mr. Holmes, we will discharge you in the morning. We want to keep you overnight for observation, and to continue your blood transfusion. No chasing after criminals for the next little while, alright?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the physician who leaves the room. John and Lestrade share a look of surprise due to the lack of acerbic deductions flying out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock unlocks his phone.

_I have no words. – MH_

Sherlock feels disconcerted. He had been expecting a scolding, a lecture or maybe even some brotherly concern. But this… is somehow worse.

“I will come over tomorrow to get your statement, Sherlock.” Lestrade gets up from the uncomfortable hospital chair. He says his goodbyes and leaves.

“I am going to go grab some food. You want some, Sherlock?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. He hasn’t eaten properly in days. John leaves the room to search for sustenance. Concentrating the last vestiges of energy he has left, Sherlock texts with his left hand.

_Say something. Anything. – SH_

_What is there to be said that has not been said? – MH_

_I can’t even scold you for risking your life to be clever, because that girl would have expired had you not intervened. – MH_

_It is a risk that I had to accept a long time ago, Sherlock. You are gallant by nature, even before Sherrinford – don’t you dare try and deny it. – MH_

_All I can ask of you is to be careful. – MH_

_You are my knight. – MH_

Sherlock takes the chance to change the mood.

_In shining armour? – SH_

_More like in dark brooding armour. – MH_

Fatigued, Sherlock slumps deep into the hospital bed. There is a long painful pause, before the texts continued. He sees them before the need to sleep finally overwhelms him.  

_Little brother, I love you. – MH_

_I cannot fathom an existence without you in it. – MH_

_You are essential. – MH_

_._

_._

**Day 8: 221B Baker Street**

Sherlock lies supine on the couch. His hands are steepled together. He is taking John’s advice and is actually resting. Everything feels dull. Even the rush of catching the latest serial killer has worn off. He had spent the last day and a half looking at the Wright-Giemsa stained blood smears processed by the killer under his microscope. The killer had been a notable hematologist at the Royal London Hospital and did research on rare blood disorders. Sherlock had enjoyed perusing the samples from patients with a plethora of disorders, ranging from sickle cell to Wiskott-Aldrich syndrome to lethal leukemias. But, even these medical curiosities couldn’t satisfy him now.

His wound still irked him. And even when it heals, it will leave yet another scar on his body; more tangible evidence of a life dangerously lived. Lestrade had informed him that the victim was stable, so Sherlock had to be satisfied that his risk had borne fruit. But, what really bothered him was the response of his brotherly lover. John had been mad at him. Lestrade had been exasperated. But, Mycroft had simply accepted it.

It wasn’t an easy acceptance; Sherlock could sense his brother’s distress in every text he had received that night at Bart’s, magnified by their separation in space. Not for the first time since Sherrinford, he wonders if he needs to reevaluate the priorities in his life. He has no desire to cause his brother any unnecessary grief. Nor, does Sherlock wish to meet a premature end. When he had been younger and the ‘high functioning sociopath’, he may have had a death wish, but now…

He wants to see Rosie grow up. He wants to spend all the possible time he could with Mycroft. He does not believe in an afterlife, or heaven – and if this is all he got, he would have to be more careful and not take things for granted.

Sherlock reaches for his phone.

_Am leaving for Geneva tomorrow. – MH_

_The curry from last night’s dinner was wonderful. As was the Kobe beef. The sashimi – no words! – MH_

_I would like for us to try making the curry together at some point. It seems easy enough. They sell those flavouring cubes in grocery stores. We could make katsu too. Chicken or pork. I asked the chef for some recipes. – MH_

_I hope your wound is better today. Wish I was there to kiss it better. – MH_

_Had some free time today. Bought those strawberry Kit-Kats that Anthea and you seem to have a predilection for. I bought some other snacks that you two may like. Will have them shipped to Anthea via express courier. – MH_

There is a photo attached next. Sherlock taps on the screen. It is a selfie of Mycroft in a tiny and colourful snack shop. It looks absurd. Sherlock grins.

_I am buying you a proper kimono with all the accessories. – MH_

_More specifically, a woman’s kimono. – MH_

Sherlock’s eyes widened at that. _Interesting, brother dear._ He thinks.

_You can tie the obi in ten different ways. I particularly like the butterfly knot. – MH_

_It will show off your neck better. I didn’t realize that the neck was such a highlight in Japanese eroticism. – MH_

Sherlock opens the second attachment. His big brother is wearing a dark blue kimono with a subtle grey serpentine pattern located laterally. His obi is the same shade of grey with lighter embroidery at the edges. There is a rather satisfied look on Mycroft’s face, despite his slightly weary look of travel. His brother looks good – like some long ago feudal Japanese lord.

The third image shows Mycroft in the same kimono but brandishing his umbrella menacingly. Sherlock almost falls off the couch in laughter. He needs a printout of this picture. He winces as the action pulls at his stitches.

_I will get you a male version as well, brother mine. – MH_

_Yours will have a dragon on it. For all those you slay for England. – MH_

After all, you are my knight in shining armour. – MH

The fourth picture shows Mycroft sitting in an old-fashioned stereotypical Japanese house, at a well-worn table with a pot of sake on a tray, alone. He holds a small dainty porcelain cup in one elegant hand. He has removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The window beside him is slightly open. A brilliant sunset is happening in the background. Sherlock has an instantaneous burning desire to be sitting in the unoccupied chair across from his brother, half a world away.

_I miss you, little brother. – MH_

Sherlock sighs as he comes to the end of his brother’s texts. An intense and throbbing sensation of longing that he has not felt since his brother’s departure stirs within his abdomen and surges upwards to his chest, behind his sternum. It moves slightly left to squeeze at his heart. The strawberry Kit-Kats – of course Mycroft remembered. He would have to share the stash with Anthea – the chocolate fiend, but it is a small price to pay for all the invaluable benefits she provides.

The kimonos. Knowing his brother, they would be handmade from the best, made from the finest cloth money could buy. A small fortune. Sherlock has never felt more like a kept man. He makes a mental note to research how to wear a kimono properly. And figure out how to tie the sash in the ten different ways Mycroft mentioned. If Mycroft has a geisha fantasy (of which Sherlock is now ninety-five percent certain), he might as well be prepared to carry it out. And he should probably take on that case for Lady So-and-so. It is barely a three, but she offers a small fortune.

Sherlock has spent most of his adulthood trying to extort as much money out of Mycroft as possible, but now that he has reached the stage where Mycroft would happily cater financially to all of Sherlock’s needs and whims, Sherlock is determined to earn his own keep.

Terribly inconvenient.

Like the lovesick fool he is, Sherlock rereads all his brother’s messages, even though his eidetic neural circuitry has encoded every word during the first readthrough in a special vault in his Mind Palace. He purges most of the messages, except for the pictures. There is nothing incriminating about the pictures.

He takes another moment to regain equilibrium before typing his replies to his brother’s messages.

.

.

**Day 10: Angelo’s Restaurant**

“I cannot believe that this was a case of kleptomania!” John shakes his head in amazement. The doctor sips some of Angelo’s finest Riesling. “And, I can’t believe that it was the grandmother. I thought for sure it was going to be the son – he had every motivation under the sun to steal his mother’s diamond!”

Sherlock toys with his truffle-oil linguine with shrimp, half-heartedly listening to John’s recount of today’s case of the missing pink diamond. Despite all of John’s enthusiasm, Sherlock still rates the case a three, although that slight could be forgiven due to the exorbitant cheque residing in his wallet.

The air in the restaurant, complete with the usual candle that Angelo lights to ‘make it more romantic’ amplifies the sensation of melancholy in Sherlock. It isn’t so bad, when he is distracted with a case, a puzzle or something to keep his formidable brain distracted. But every so often, he is reminded of something that makes his chest ache just so, as cliché as it sounds.

John continues with his enthusiastic exclamations and praises of Sherlock’s deductive prowess. Sherlock looks at his phone.

_Goldfish are goldfish, no matter how beautiful the scenery is. – MH_

There is a picture of Mycroft sitting at a table on an elevated wooden deck, enjoying a simple Swiss breakfast of bread, cold cuts and cheese. The Alps loom breathtakingly in the background.

_The mouth on the Danish ambassador though! Ghastly man can’t keep his mouth shut, or his hands off the women. Lady Smallwood was most displeased. – MH_

Sherlock feels an irrational pang of jealousy over Lady Smallwood. He smothers it before it could ruin his evening. He knows that she is only there for the UN meeting that Mycroft was currently attending. She would never know what it is like to be Mycroft’s lover. He suppresses a smirk and types.

_I am eating at Angelo’s with John. I wish it was with you instead. – SH_

_We will go out when I get back. Maybe the south of France? Black Forest? Santorini? – MH_

_I would even be happy with a brotherly meal in London. – SH_

_That can be easily done, brother dear. – MH_

_I wouldn’t object to Santorini either, lover mine. Or even Mykonos. – SH_

_Then we shall go, darling mine. I will let Anthea know. – MH_

Sherlock struggles harder to hide his smile at this new term of endearment. Not to mention the prospect of having his brother all to himself for a few days.

A real sex holiday.

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me at all?” John asks, more fond than annoyed. He is almost finished eating his vegetarian lasagna. “Maybe I will get some tiramisu.”

“Sorry, got stuck in my Mind Palace for a bit.” Sherlock lies smoothly, “Maybe I will have a bite of your dessert.”

John nods, waving one of the waitstaff over. He asks for the dessert. Sherlock makes a second attempt at eating his pasta.

“I was saying that there’s this single and gay bloke I met at the conference from Dublin. He’s visiting with his friend Mira, and I would really love for us to do a double-date. They are coming next week.” John explains again. “Marshall is his name, and he’s smart, well-dressed and even in my straight opinion – hot.”

Sherlock raises an expressive eyebrow.

John sighs.

“Okay, maybe I am not so straight.” John concedes unexpectedly and reluctantly, much to Sherlock’s surprise.

“Bisexual.” Sherlock corrects. “I’ve known that for a while. And are you thinking about dating again?”

“Wait – what? How did you know?” John looks shocked.

“You look at my arse.” Sherlock says in his smug knowing way.

John is exasperated. “Everyone looks at your arse, Sherlock! Even your brother!”

Sherlock inwardly groans. If John only knew. _This may or may not be a disaster._

“Did you not forget that time in Buckingham Palace? And your bedsheet? And, Mycroft –“

“Alright. I get it. I really did not need to know that.” Sherlock backpedals calmly, masking his nerves. John is hitting a little too close to home for his comfort. Sherlock offers a strategic concession. “I will go on your date.”

_Did you really ogle my delectable derrière at Buckingham Palace all those years ago? – SH_

“Great!” John is more than happy to change the topic. “I will let you know when we set it up. You will like Marshall. You deserve someone that will make you happy, Sherlock.”

_Such modesty, Sherlock. That information is classified. – MH_

_So, you did, brother dear. I bet you wanted me to keep walking when you had your foot on my sheet. – SH_

“Thanks, John.” Sherlock tries to be grateful for John’s apparent thoughtfulness, feeling somewhat terrible that John will never get to know how happy Sherlock really is.

_No comment. – MH_

Mischievously, Sherlock texts on.

_And then, you would grab me. Shove me against the nearest royal surface. Fuck all the insolence out of me, your little brother, at the very heart of the British nation.  – SH_

_Kinky. – SH_

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” John gives a smile. “You have changed so much after Sherrinford. Figures you might be ready for this sort of thing.”

_Sherlock! Language! And not now! I am in a meeting with the Russians! – MH `_

“You mean finding my emotions?” Sherlock asks for clarification. He discreetly adjusts his pants under the table.

_Ah, so you would do it later. – SH_

“I mean, you’ve always had them. They were just… repressed.” John explains.

The tiramisu arrives. John pushes the plate towards Sherlock, who takes one of the forks and has a small dainty nibble. John picks up the other fork and has a generous bite. He moans appreciatively at the decadent dessert.

_God help me. I would. – MH_

_I am merely flesh and blood. – MH_

Sherlock grins inwardly. It is so much fun to rile up Mycroft, especially when he is out doing important things for Queen and Country. He turns his attention back to the tiramisu, feeling much improved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1) Flunitrazepam (Rohypnol) is a date rape drug.  
> 2) Etorphine is used in veterinary practices to immobilize animals. Think elephants. Also the drug that Dexter Morgan uses to drug his victims before killing them. 
> 
> There will smut in the next chapter. I will put it up in a few days. It's mostly done. 
> 
> My work isn't beta-ed or Brit-picked so I apologize for any mistakes that may be present.  
> Regarding updates in general, I am writing a licensing exam in late May for my profession so please forgive me if updates become more sporadic. Some may say it is the most important exam I will write in my life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea and Sherlock share the spoils. Sherlock and Mycroft spend some time together.

**Day 11: Conference Room near Mycroft’s Whitehall Office**

“How’s your knife wound?” Anthea inquires, as she cuts two slices off the decadent matcha and chocolate cake. It had been a surprise in the package of Japanese treats that had been posted by Mycroft. She plates both and slides one of the plates, a fork and a paper napkin over to Sherlock.

“It is better. John said I was lucky it wasn’t infected.” Sherlock offers before taking the cake and utensil. “Still tender when I move in certain ways. Unfortunately.” He slices a piece off his cake with the tines of his fork, scrutinizing the smooth texture of rich chocolate, the fluffiness of the matcha infused sheets of cake, and the creaminess of the surface icing. It had held up well through its expedited international travel and its stay in Anthea’s fridge.

Anthea spears her cake and takes the first bite. A look of bliss crosses her face erasing all the stress from running Mycroft’s operations since he’s been away. “Holy…” She is rendered speechless.

Sherlock delicately sniffs at the bite he picks up, enjoying its fragrant notes. He eats it; it is almost orgasmic. He wonders what the cake would have tasted fresh and minus the crossing of two continents.

“Had I known that this was the result of you and your brother being together, I would have moved heaven and Earth to get you two together ages ago.” Anthea manages to get out. She takes another heavenly bite.

He rolls his eyes, despite being secretly pleased that there is one person on this planet who knew about Mycroft and him. Who approved of them. And was happy for them. Anthea had figured it out within one month of their transformed relationship. Sherlock remembers what she had said:

_“I see your brother almost every day and I pride myself to know his moods and anticipate his needs, Sherlock. You know, after Sherrinford, your brother was an absolute mess. He came to work and went through the motions. And, I had never seen him so defeated the day your parents showed up. I remembered also how surprised he was when you tactfully threw your parents out of his office. And then, a few weeks later – his mood changed. He was happy. I knew something was up then, since happy was not his baseline before Sherrinford. He was having sex – I can tell. I realized that he stopped asking for updates about your activities from our usual surveillance measures. And then, one day you showed up at his office, and he was playing the charade that seeing you was a nuisance – but I saw through that. Sherlock, I owe your brother so much, and it makes me happy to see that he is happy. I will take the secret about the nature of your relationship to the grave with the greatest honour and privilege.”_

“I don’t think it would have worked out if Sherrinford had not happened.” Sherlock says, finishing his piece of cake and reaching out for another slice. He had needed to learn how to deal with his childhood traumas in a mature way – any psychiatrist or psychologist worth their salt would have had a field day in unraveling the sheer breadth of mental defense mechanisms that he had employed to bury them.

_Thank you for the treats, brother mine. – SH_

_I will never say another bad word against cake. – SH_

“Probably not.” Anthea answers after a brief reflection. “But still. All those lovely hypothetical treats I missed out on. Let a girl dream, will you?” She grabs a bag of crisps from the extensive snack stash and opens it. Sherlock sees that it is seaweed and salt (nori-shio) flavoured. She offers the bag to Sherlock, who takes a handful. He enjoys the salt and crunch after the sweetness.

_That good, lover dear? – MH_

_As always, the pleasure is mine. – MH_

“So…” Anthea begins with a gleam in her eyes, “Santorini… A romantic choice. Honeymoon quality. I heard you picked the destination. Your brother sounded deliriously happy when he called.”

Sherlock blushes. He decides to own it instead. It was not something to be ashamed of, not if it made his lover happy. “I am capable of being romantic.”

_It was divine. – SH_

“This from the man who refers to honeymoons as sex holidays?” Anthea says with teasing skepticism.

_Work beckons. I won’t be able to text for the next while. I will see you tonight? – MH_

“You know what I plan to do before we get there?” Sherlock starts saying after swallowing another mouthful of crisps. “I am going to get a haircut. And, I am going to pretend that I am not Mycroft’s brother, but be publicly his lover. It must be me, since Mycroft is not a known public figure. And you know how much I love my hair. I want it – desperately.”

_I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lover mine. – SH_

_Even for a case worth a ten! – SH_

“Forbidden love…” Anthea stares off dreamily. “I am not going to lie, it’s hot.”

Sherlock levels a mischievous glint towards Anthea. It was time to turn the tables on her. “Do you find the concept hot, or do you find the idea of Mycroft and I together hot?”

It is Anthea’s turn to blush. “Don’t you dare tell your brother, but both.”

“Well, this is most fascinating.” Sherlock exclaims happily. He wonders if he could ever convince Anthea to help him accomplish his elusive fantasy of getting fucked in Mycroft’s Whitehall office. He deduces that she would enjoy helping – maybe to the point where it would be more of a favour for her. He files that thought away for another day. He switches the topic. “Now, did you not say you had work you wanted me to help you with?”

.

.

**Day 11: Mycroft’s House, Master Bedroom**

_Can you look after Rosie tonight? – JW_

_Sorry John, I have plans. – SH_

_Case? – JW_

Sherlock is tempted to lie, but he doesn’t. Or at least, not completely. This way, at least, John wouldn’t question it if he was absent from his bed at Baker Street the entire night.

_No. – SH_

_Date? – JW_

_Sex.  – SH_

_Have fun! Be safe! – JW_

_Thank you. I will. – SH_

Sherlock is oddly jittery as he lights a few candles on Mycroft’s nightstand. He turns off his phone. Just earlier, he had taken a very thorough shower and spent over half an hour looking through the clothes he had in Mycroft’s wardrobe, trying to figure out what to wear. Ultimately, he decides on nothing. Literally. Instead, he drapes himself in a bedsheet like the one he had worn to Buckingham Palace so long ago. It is a shame that the original got destroyed. He lies down on Mycroft’s side of the bed and boots up his brother’s personal laptop. He enters the password.

Eleven days. Eleven days where he has not seen his brother. Nor heard his voice. Ever since they had transcended their fraternal relationship, they had seen each other no less than twice a week. Sherlock opens the heavily encrypted video chat program that his brother had set up. He clicks accept when the call finally comes through and maximizes the window.

He simply stares. He is a parched nomad wandering lost in a scorching hot and sandstorm swept desert for eleven days and nights, and Mycroft is his oasis; his shelter from the storm. He drinks in the details greedily. His brother sits elegantly on an armchair in his usual three-piece suit in a swanky hotel suite. The room is decorated tastefully with whites and other neutral shades of colour in a modern style. There is a bottle of pricy Glenfiddich with a partially filled tumbler on a wooden tray.

Sherlock makes his deductions – his brother is actually sunburnt (side effect of real legwork in Fortaleza, Brazil; although Sherlock strongly suspects that it had involved a beach), had showered and changed into fresh clothes before initiating the call, is exhausted (less than four hours of sleep last night) and the whiskey signals that Mycroft intends to have an indulgent night (or rather late afternoon, due to the time difference). Sherlock finds him wishing that he had taken the time to dress up – his brother is quite partial to Sherlock in fancy attire. He suddenly feels shy – something that has never happened before in his brother’s presence.

And, he realizes that Mycroft hasn’t spoken either during the minutes that had elapsed since the videocall started.

Mycroft breaks the ice. “Is it going to be that kind of call?” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “Had I known that, I would have saved myself the bother of dressing.”

Sherlock stifles a wild desire to laugh. His shyness is all but gone. He says with mock offense – his words are imbued with the spirit of his haughtiest inner prima donna, “Don’t be so presumptuous, brother mine, I am still deciding whether or not I will be putting out this evening.”

“The sheet says yes.” Mycroft refutes – his voice dripping with a predatory intent. The syllables grow silkier. “An allusion – to perhaps a – previous incident of what the goldfish call ‘sexting’ these days.”

 _Words should not do things like this_. Chills run down Sherlock’s spine – the word sexting should not have sounded so filthy coming out of Mycroft’s mouth. He could feel his cock twitch under the bedsheet. “Don’t promise things you can’t deliver, lover mine.” Sherlock warns.

Mycroft shoots him a look of pure lust. It causes Sherlock to scoot back from the laptop. It feels absolutely dangerous.

Intoxicating.

Sherlock cringes as his abrupt movement pulls at his stitches.

His brother’s demeanour shifts at once. It is tender. “Come closer, little brother. Let me see.”

Sherlock mentally curses his wound for spoiling the promising mood. Resignedly, he reluctantly pulls down the left side of his bedsheet and exposes his stitches to his brother. Mycroft scrutinizes the wound. His beautiful fingers move closer to his laptop, as if to gently trace and caress Sherlock’s injury.

“I could have lost you.” Mycroft whispers – the statement is more for himself than Sherlock.

“You didn’t.” Sherlock inanely replies.

“It will scar.” Mycroft observes.

Sherlock shrugs as nonchalantly as he could, “It will be one of many.”

“Too many.” Mycroft replies, sadly.

Sherlock artlessly lets his bedsheet slip down to his hips. He slowly turns a full circle, letting Mycroft see his collection of ruined flesh. The scars do bother him – Sherlock has always been a vain creature.

Mycroft deduces Sherlock’s thoughts immediately. “You are the singular most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” His words are both reverence and adoration.

Sherlock sees from the soft glimmer in Mycroft’s eyes that he means every word of it.

“I wish I was there. In our bed with you right now.” Mycroft starts saying, while unbuttoning his suit jacket. He is wistful. “As much as I would like to play out our bedsheet fantasy, I would rather prefer to make love to you tonight. In fact, I wish I had done so on the last night we were physically together.” He pulls off his suit jacket, drapes it over an unoccupied chair and works on his waistcoat. “I think about it – constantly.”

“You were exhausted the last night we were together –“ Sherlock remembers that it was he who had worshiped and taken apart his work-exhausted brother that night. And, given him a massage.

“Let me finish, lover mine.” Mycroft takes off his waistcoat. He works on exposing his elbows. “I would start by taking off my tie and binding your wrists together. After all, we both know you are not very good at keeping still.” Mycroft smiles affectionately. He loosens his tie and strokes the fine fabric in a slow and suggestive manner. The tie is slipped off and tossed into the seat of the adjacent chair with uncharacteristic carelessness.

Sherlock can imagine the softness of Mycroft’s silk tie encircling his wrists. He is half-tempted to get up from the bed and grab one of his brother’s ties from the wardrobe. But he stays put. He tactfully refrains from saying that Mycroft isn’t very good at staying still either.

“I would kiss you next. God. How much I want to kiss you, brother mine.” An iota of desperation starts creeping into Mycroft’s words. He blows a kiss.

Sherlock returns it. He wants it just as badly. Mycroft and he could spend hours doing that. Kissing.

“I would kiss, nibble and caress you all over. Worship your scars – for they remind me that you are alive despite everything – tokens of strength, valour and endurance. Mark you.” Mycroft continues while unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the wonderful hairiness of his chest. He unbuckles his belt and pulls the zip of his trousers down. He sighs deeply. “That was an oversight on my part. I should have marked you before I left. You were the smart one after all, brother mine.” He uses two fingers to touch his clavicle – where Sherlock had left his claim eleven days ago.  

Sometime during this, Sherlock has begun to touch himself while letting the sentiment infused in his brother’s impassioned soliloquy seep into every cell of his body. He leisurely caresses his chest and plays with his nipples, allowing them to stiffen. He touches a few of his scars when his brother mentions them. His hands shift downward to his abdomen, stroking the sensitive skin around his navel, over his well-defined rectus abdominis. He feels himself hardening further when his brother mentions the love bites – it wasn’t about inflicting pain – but possession. The bedsheet now falls completely off Sherlock’s body, bearing his pelvic region, genitalia and his lower extremities to his brother. His fingers brush with increasing pressure against his inner thighs. He savours the delicious build of tension within.

“You would be begging by the time I am finished with you.” Mycroft states in a matter of fact manner. He has taken his own erection out of his pants and trousers. He acquires some lubricant and begins to stroke his shaft. “I would untie your wrists, flip you over and lick your pretty little hole. Eat it out. Fuck it with my tongue. How does that sound, brother dear?”

Sherlock lets out a strangled whimper. He mirrors Mycroft’s motions and rhythm with his own hand and cock. He loves it when big brother becomes verbally perverse. With his other hand, he lightly presses against his perineum and rubs over the opening of his sphincter. He is too far gone to go fetch the lubricant on the nightstand. He knows neither of them will last long.

“You could come like that.” Mycroft increases the speed of his strokes. “But I know that is not what you want. And I will always know what you want – darling mine.” There is a feral look on his countenance. “You want my cock up your arse – don’t you? Like how you wished it the morning I left for Japan.”

Mycroft treats his question as rhetorical, not that Sherlock is in any state to answer it. Sherlock is close – oh so close.

His big brother presses onwards, sounding more and more ragged as he climbs perilously closer to the precipice. He struggles hard to articulate his syllables, sacrificing his usual velocity for clarity. “I would fuck you then. Hard, just the way you like it. You will –” Mycroft grunts, trying to stave off the inevitable for a bit longer. He is frantic. “Come with me – my beloved, mon amour, meu anjo, 我的亲爱的 – !” [wǒ de qīn ài de – !]

Mycroft trails off into incoherence.

Sherlock has the presence of mind to grab his bedsheet as he comes with his brother’s name on his lips, catching whatever droplets of come that didn’t make it to his torso into the cloth. He collapses, completely spent, making sure his semen splattered chest lands on his sheet, and not on the bed. He looks up to see that his brother has climaxed, spending into a bunch of tissues. Mycroft looks completely dazed, with what could be described as a silly grin on his face. Sherlock is sure he has a matching one on his own.

There is quiet as Sherlock basks in the afterglow. The cocktail of serotonin, oxytocin and dopamine among others is potent; his mind is deliciously blank. The only thing that is missing is having Mycroft physically curled up with him. He wants to nuzzle his face in the soft fur of his brother’s chest, rest his head on the softness of his belly, or rather just be in his brother’s embrace.

“I just want to touch you.” Sherlock says hazily.

“You have no idea, meu amor.” Mycroft responds, equally shattered. He decants more whiskey into his tumbler. “How much I want it as well.”

Sherlock finishes wiping the come off his chest. He points to his abdomen and traces a line vertically up his sternum, to the manubrium and to the left over his pectoralis major. Unclenching his hand, he rests his palm over the right ventricle of his heart. “It aches here.”

“As does mine, brother mine.” Mycroft says.

Sherlock muses internally on how easily sentiment is shared between them these days. Gone are the days where ‘caring is not an advantage’. It is better this way – he thinks.

Mycroft simply nods, clearly in tune with Sherlock’s mind.

They talk. Mycroft’s work, Sherlock’s cases (minus his injury), politics (Mycroft is not shy about airing out dirty laundry that is censored by mainstream media), recent scientific discoveries, philosophy and their future. They banter. Sherlock adopts points of view just for the sake of aggravating his brother. Mycroft retaliates by sneaking in the most atrocious puns, knowing that they drive his little brother insane. They switch seamlessly among English, Portuguese and Mandarin. Mycroft is going to Beijing soon and needs the practice. They talk about Santorini. Sherlock tells Mycroft about his plans to get his hair cut and go undercover as Mycroft’s public lover while they are there. Mycroft is both dismayed and ecstatic about the idea. Sherlock placates him by saying that his hair will grow back quickly when they return to London. They discuss the history of piracy on the Aegean Sea. Finally, Sherlock broaches the subject of the impending double date set up by John.

Mycroft is unhappy. He carelessly tosses half his tumbler of whiskey down his throat and ponders. It is the same way Sherlock had felt during that single time Mycroft went out for a government function with an escort as his plus one. Sherlock had not taken it well at all. It had been too soon in their relationship, where everything was too new; too uncertain.

“You will have to go, brother mine. From what Dr. Watson understands, you are single and having regular casual sex.” Mycroft keeps a straight face, but Sherlock sees the barely perceptible flickers of unease in his brother’s eyes when he mentions the words single and casual sex in relation to him. “Plus, you have agreed to it, after all.”

Sherlock nods. He knows there is no good way around it. “I could tell John that I have an exclusive friend with benefits.”

“That could backfire. Dr. Watson may become intrigued and pester you to let him meet the one who has managed to captivate you sexually to the point of exclusivity.” Mycroft offers. “Better to play the single option.”

“You are very captivating, darling mine.” Sherlock tests the new endearment out, infusing an inflection of possessiveness into the last word. He smiles coyly when he sees Mycroft visibly shudder, delighting in the power he has over his brother. He is determined not to let the evening end on a somber note.

Mycroft groans. “You are a terror.”

“And you love it.” Sherlock adds.

For the first time since their chat started, Sherlock checks the time. It is already long past midnight.

“I do.” Mycroft replies warmly. “It is late on your end. I take it you plan to sleep in our bed?”

Sherlock nods. “I do want to shower.”

“Please keep the feed open.” Mycroft makes a request. “I will terminate it when I go to bed, brother mine.” He blows another kiss. “I love you.” 

Sherlock picks up the laptop, gets out of bed and blows all the candles out. He positions the laptop strategically on the nightstand, so that when Sherlock sleeps on Mycroft’s side of the bed later, his brother would be able to watch over him – as he has always done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> mon amour - my love (French)  
> meu anjo - my angel (Portuguese)  
> 我的亲爱的; pinyin: wǒ de qīn ài de - my dear (romantic connotation) (Mandarin)  
> meu amor - my love (Portuguese)
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely support. Working on Chapter 4 but it will take longer to finish.  
> Comments are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The double date, where Sherlock's 'date' proves more perceptive than expected.

** Day 15: 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s Bedroom **

Solemnly, Sherlock surveys his vast collection of shirts. He is trying to determine how he should present himself for the double date tonight. He knew that for John’s sake, he had to make an effort, but he didn’t want to make too much of an effort.

A delicate predicament.

He picks out one of the new bespoke shirts that Mycroft had bought for him – smoke gray – and puts it on. His trousers go on next. He hesitates momentarily, before impulsively grabbing a tie that he had taken from Mycroft’s house a few days ago.

A blue so dark it was almost black. Silver stripes.

Without thinking too much about it, he knots it in a half Windsor around his neck. He frowns at the mirror. It doesn’t look quite right. He takes it off and tries again. This time with the full Windsor. Normally, he abhors wearing ties, but today, the pressure around his neck is comforting. Finally, he puts on his suit jacket and shoes.

He takes a selfie and sends it to his brother.

_Into battle. – SH_

Sherlock leaves his room. John is already dressed and sitting on the couch. Notably, the doctor is wearing his usual blue date shirt and a new pair of shoes.

_Is that my tie? – MH_

_Problem? – SH_

John scrutinizes Sherlock. He looks surprised, “I thought you hated ties?”

“I thought you said Marshall was a smart dresser?” Sherlock shrugs casually.

_No! I very much appreciate the gesture. I approve of the choice of knot, brother mine. – MH_

John says, “I thought you might go as your usual self.”

“I do on occasion wear ties to dates, John.” Sherlock finds himself defensive about a subject he had never thought he would have to be sensitive about.

“Well…” John does not know what to say. He shakes his head, “I feel like I know nothing about this side of you, Sherlock.”

“Well, I guess you will find out today, John.” Sherlock winks.

.

.

In the taxi, John finally asks a question that had been bothering him all day, “Why did you take that case today? It seemed like something totally beneath you!”

Sherlock grimaces. The case had been trivial; it had featured an Oxford professor who lost her show dog – a beagle. It had never been his intention to bring John along. However, John was unexpectedly off work today. With Rosie already sorted with a babysitter arranged for the day and night, John had insisted on tagging along. It was not the problem that intrigued Sherlock, but the reward.

The professor, one Dr. Akari Takahashi, was an expert in Japanese culture, and had spent several years in Kyoto observing and living amongst the geishas. She knew about how they dressed, how they entertained and how they lived. Sherlock had offered her half off his usual going rate in exchange for gathering the pertinent information he needed. Fortunately, John had needed to go to the loo as soon as they had arrived at Akari’s residence in Oxford, so Sherlock had taken the professor aside and requested that she not breathe word about that part of the deal to John. That would open a can of worms that Sherlock had no intentions of dealing with.

Like Sherlock had predicted, the case was trivial. It had taken John and him no more than three hours to track down the dog, who had been stolen by Akari’s bitter ex-boyfriend. Akari had been grateful for the quick resolution, and paid Sherlock his entire fee anyways. When John was out of earshot, they had decided to meet the week after for a chat.

“There wasn’t anything else on.” Sherlock replies, knowing very well that it wasn’t true. There were two other cases in his inbox that were slightly more interesting, or he could have gone to Whitehall to help a swamped Anthea with one of his brother’s projects. He tries a new tactic. “Plus, I deduced that you wanted to get out of London.”

John is amazed. “That is, surprisingly, thoughtful of you.”

_You should wear ties more often. – MH_

Sherlock feigns hurt. “I am perfectly capable of being nice.”

“I know, I know.” John placates Sherlock by patting his elbow.

_Don’t press your luck, lover mine. I still prefer your ties around my wrists and ankles. – SH_

.

.

The venue turned out to be a swanky bar with a fantastic view of the London skyline. John and Sherlock had arrived before their dates and had been seated at a prime location right at the windows. The late April sun was beginning its long descent down to the horizon as they sat down on plush white seats. It is an unusually clear and beautiful day. Sherlock gently strokes the soft silk of his brother’s tie. How he wished that it was Mycroft instead of Marshall that would meet him here.

_I miss you. I wish this date was with you. – SH_

_I would even wear a tie if you asked. – SH_

John pours some water into both Sherlock’s and his own glass from an ornate silver jug. He remarks with slight disapproval, “Are you always on your phone when on a date?”

_As do I, brother mine. I am having dinner at the White House today. I would much rather have dinner with you. – MH_

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John and sips some of his water, “Not always. But I can carry out a scintillating conversation and be on my phone. Easy.”

_Wear the tie only if you want to. You know I would never make you do anything you truly do not wish to.  – MH_

“Is it not rude?” John inquires curiously.

“You know what I feel about tedious social conventions, John.” Sherlock drawls with a faint trace of annoyance. He just wanted to text his real lover in peace.

That wasn’t entirely true anymore. Sherlock did take more care in minding social niceties, especially around Mycroft. He had no desire to embarrass his brother or to draw attention to himself these days while out in public.

_I was going to send you these pictures later. But here they are for your perusal and enjoyment. – MH_

Sherlock opens the attachments. There are two pictures. Mycroft lounging leisurely on the President’s chair at the Oval Office, looking very much like a dangerous man. The other one was of him shaking hands with the President in front of the President’s desk.

_Brother dear, I see that your plans for world domination have be initiated. – SH_

John sighs with pained exasperation but mercifully does not comment.

_Nonsense! – MH_

_Flattery and a touch of humility will get you anywhere with that ghastly man. – MH_

_A truly unique specimen of goldfish! – MH_

_You know my modus operandi, lover mine. I prefer to sit in the shadows. – MH_

_Over tea and cake, while supervising your minions manipulating the strings. – SH_

_Precisely. – MH_

“Oh, here they finally are!” John interrupts. He waves at two figures walking towards them.

Sherlock looks up from his phone. He sees Marshall and Mira. Marshall is around the same height as him, of partial Han Chinese ancestry and wearing a well-tailored and form-flattering gray suit which showed off his musculature. He is black haired and brown eyed. Objectively speaking, he is an attractive man. From his fingers, gait and posture, Sherlock could deduce that Marshall is a surgeon – either neuro or vascular. No, that wasn’t quite right, Sherlock rethinks – Marshall is an otolaryngologist. It was unlikely that a single neurosurgeon or vascular surgeon had enough time to look after a pair of energetic dogs – an Irish Setter and German Shepherd.

Mira reaches the table first. She is of Persian descent – likely Iranian. She’s wearing a ruby red cocktail dress, with subtle sparkly sequins in the sleeves and shoulders that complemented her skin tone. Her curly hair reaches her shoulders. It is harder to deduce her occupation, but it is clear she is not a physician. Although, Sherlock can see that her job is stressful. It is likely she works at Heathrow – possibly as an air traffic controller. She owns a diabetic cat – an orange one.

It is clear to Sherlock that Marshall and Mira have been friends since childhood.

“Mira! Marshall!” John exclaims, standing up to shake both their hands.

_Our dinner companions have arrived. – SH_

“John!” Marshall returns the enthusiasm. “And you must be Sherlock! Nice to meet you.” His handshake is hearty and firm.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged. They both sit down after Marshall politely pulls out Mira’s chair for her.

They discuss mundanities for a while, before Marshall makes a request. He suavely demands. “So, Sherlock – the art of deduction – demonstrate it to me. Or rather, deduce me.”

John and Mira stop talking and both turn to face Sherlock, intrigued.

_Remember that it is I who loves you. – MH_

_Meeting with the American Cabinet. Won’t be able to text for the next hour or so. – MH_

Sherlock sighs. He does not like deducing for strangers. It makes his well-honed skills seem like party tricks. But there is something charmingly impertinent about Marshall that compels him to take it on as a challenge. His date exudes an attractive easy confidence. However, Marshall’s eyes betray the nervousness he has in anticipation of Sherlock’s deductions. It is very different from the quiet authoritative air his brother radiates in public. He takes a few seconds to reexamine Marshall, while he texts his reassurances to his brother under the table without looking.

_They may want to bear witness to the art of deduction, but I would much rather practice the art of seduction with you. – SH_

_My fascinatingly dangerous and handsome man. – SH_

_The only one for me. – SH_

_Remember that, brother mine. – SH_

_I love you. – SH_

“You are an otolaryngologist. You own two dogs – a German Shepherd and an Irish Setter. The German Shepherd is a recent acquisition – a puppy. Your mother fled for England from Mao Zedong’s Communist China – likely from Shanghai and met your father, an Englishman here in London. In the last five or so years, you have lived in Cambridge for your medical residency and fellowship training, but you have recently moved back to London – within this past week. You like to play billiards – probably eight-ball pool or snooker. Despite being what they call a gym rat – you prefer to swim. The butterfly stroke is your forte. You’ve had LASIK done for myopia last year. Within the last two years, you have torn your anterior cruciate ligament of your left knee, probably from playing football. You are a Liverpool fan. You’ve recently ended a friends-with-benefits situation, because you are interested in settling down. Maybe even starting a family. And, now you are wavering between the fish and chips or the salmon salad for dinner. You will order the salmon salad, because you will want to present yourself as health conscious. But, you are certainly getting a tequila-based cocktail.”

“Damn.” Marshall takes a breath. “You are the fucking real deal, alright, Sherlock. I am not going to ask you how you know, because I never ask a magician to reveal his secrets. And I do enjoy both eight-ball and snooker.” He winks, flirtatiously.

Sherlock tries hard not to enjoy the flattery.

A waitress comes over to take their orders. Marshall does indeed order the salmon salad and asks for a tequila sunrise. Sherlock goes for the lamb chops and a glass of nice Glenfiddich.  

“But, how on earth do you know about his relationship situation?” John inquires, as he always does.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sherlock wags a finger, partially inspired by Marshall’s answer. If he was going to have to sit here and suffer, he might as well have his fun. He says mischievously with a hint of intrigue. “It is a secret. In fact, I’ve been making a new study – the deduction of sex. Besides, deducing one’s sexual orientation and relationship status, I can determine what one’s innermost sexual fantasies are through simple observation.”

Well, it was sort of true. Sherlock could add up all the information from his general deductions and extrapolate it to what a person might desire in bed.

“No way.” John exclaims with a scandalized air. “You are pulling our legs!”

Marshall shakes his head, “No way you can be this good!”

“What a fascinating study,” Mira cuts in. She winks cheekily at Sherlock. “Do John!”

John flushes a violent shade of red. “Don’t do me.”

Marshall laughs at the innuendo. He says to Sherlock, his eyes challenging. “Fine, do me instead.”

Sherlock thinks. He will give this ridiculous challenge a serious try, for chaos – or rather, for science. After all, he started this nonsense anyways. “You top and bottom for penetrative sex, although you prefer to bottom. But –“

Mira makes an excited noise. Both John and Marshall have ceased breathing at some point, realizing that there is a very real chance that Sherlock was not bluffing.

“Bondage is your fantasy.” Sherlock continues after a dramatic pause. “You have tried tying yourself up, although you have never trusted any of your previous partners to do it for you.” He deduces this based on the way Marshall tied his tie and his history of friends-with-benefits type relationships.

“This is unbelievable.” Marshall is impressed, rather than embarrassed. He beams at Sherlock’s deductive prowess. “Amazing!”

“So, he was correct?” John asks, half curious, half afraid.

Marshall nods, while dramatically spreading his arms. “I have nothing to hide now!”

Sherlock decides not to mention that his deduction was a lucky guess. He has a slow sip of his whiskey in celebration.

“Bloody hell.” John takes a large gulp of the beer that had just arrived. “Even our sexual fantasies aren’t safe anymore.”

Mira laughs. “Now I am really curious about yours – John.”

“I think some things should remain private.” John replies hastily, still flustered.

John is saved from further interrogation when the food finally arrives. Everyone digs in. Sherlock could, based on his knowledge of John, make a respectable guess of his friend’s fantasies, but he had a feeling that it would fall under the ‘a bit not good’ category. Although, he did have an intuitive sense that Marshall’s and John’s kinks were compatible. But, nevertheless, Marshall has spent most of his evening looking at him, and not John – so it is clear that John is not Marshall’s type. And, John was clearly not ready to explore the male half of his bisexuality. _Relationships are far too complicated – too many unquantifiable variables. Too messy._ Sherlock muses. He is infinitely grateful that the world has given him Mycroft. He picks up a lamb chop and begins the task of eating.

.

.

At the end of dinner, Mira and John decide to go downstairs to check out the dance floor with live music, leaving Sherlock and Marshall alone at the table. Marshall has ordered another drink – a strawberry margarita – while Sherlock works on his second Glenfiddich. The sun was close to the horizon now, its light illuminating the sky in gorgeous purples, oranges and yellows. They are both silent; Marshall is pondering something, while Sherlock waits for Mycroft to message back.

The physician speaks gravely after minutes have passed, “I don’t think this will work out.”

“I think you are right.” Sherlock says cautiously.

Marshall sighs deeply, “If I am not wrong – you are already seeing someone.”

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock is curious, wondering what tells gave his secret away.

“I am not certain, exactly.” Marshall sips at his drink. He tries to verbalize his observation. “But you have this look like – you are anticipating something – someone – all dinner long. If I must guess – via text. And this someone is important to you – a significant other most certainly. I don’t think many people would have picked it up. But, I do like to think that I am observant.” He smiles. “Obviously, not to the degree you are.”

Sherlock sighs somewhat forlornly. The game is up.

He touches Mycroft's tie for courage.

“I take it that John is unaware?” Marshall inquires.

“Yes.” Sherlock acknowledges. “He doesn’t know.”

“Is your relationship serious?” Marshall asks.

“Very.” Sherlock admits. There was no point in lies at this stage. “But it is a delicate situation.”

“Ah…” Marshall drinks more of his cocktail. His expression is serious. He thinks for a moment. He replies cautiously. “You are reasonably famous in the UK. You have enemies. There are a lot of possible reasons why you don’t want your relationship dragged out in public. And I can respect that. I won’t tell John, or anyone. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock says genuinely.

“De nada.” Marshall replies, “I really do enjoy your company – however. If you ever need a beard – give me a call.” He winks. “I am serious! Or at least, I hope we can be friends. I certainly need those, considering I just moved back to London for my new job. It is difficult to find non-mind-numbingly boring company these days.”

Sherlock laughs out loud for the first time this evening, “You are certainly a lot more tolerable than the rest of the general public.”

“I would hope so.” Marshall joins in the laughter. He then adds seriously in a solemn manner. “You could do me a little favour.”

Sherlock raises an inquisitive eyebrow. He does not dare think about the kinds of favours Marshall would want for his silence. He has had enough of blackmailers for a lifetime.

Marshall grins widely, deducing Sherlock’s fears accurately. He exclaims. “I am not blackmailing you, Sherlock. That would make me a lousy friend! I just wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind playing a little pool.” He gestures to the pool tables located centrally.

“A word of warning,” Sherlock says cockily, masking his relieved expression, “I am good. Don’t cry if you lose.”

“Bring it, posh boy!” Marshall gets up from the table.

Sherlock makes a rude gesture, and they both laugh delightedly as they make their way to the center of the room, drinks in hand.

.

.

“So, are you seeing Marshall again?” John asks much later, as Sherlock works on opening their flat door.

Sherlock says carefully. “I believe so.”

“Excellent!” John remarks, as he steps into the flat. He hangs up his coat. “Of course, Cambridge is a one-hour train ride –“

“John,” Sherlock interrupts while removing his coat and scarf, “You do know Marshall moved back to London this week for his new job? That’s why he offered to meet up and bring Mira today, or rather yesterday.”

“Even better.” John amends. “I am seeing Mira again next week.”

_How did the date go? – MH_

“That’s good.” Sherlock throws himself down on the couch, mentally deploring how unobservant John was at times. But then again, it made his life a lot easier. He loosens the tie.

_Date deduced I was taken. – SH_

“Well, I am going to take a shower.” John was already heading up the stairs to his bedroom to fetch a change of clothes. “I better go to bed asap – got the afternoon shift tomorrow.”

_Is there going to be any complications? – MH_

_No. He was very understanding and is willing to keep my relationship status to himself. I trust him. Offered to be my beard if I needed one. – SH_

_Does he suspect the identity of your lover? – MH_

_No, he doesn’t know about your existence in any capacity. Only that I have a significant other. – SH_

_I guess that is fine. – MH_

_Are you seeing him again? – MH_

_Maybe this weekend? I want to see his dogs. We might play some billiards too. It may be strategic to let John think that I am dating him for a while. At least John wouldn’t be setting me up with random goldfish off the gutters! – SH_

_Should I be jealous? – MH_

_I have looked over Dr. Marshall Zhangwei Hayes’ files – he is exemplary partner material if you ever wanted a relationship that you do not need to hide from this world. – MH_

Sherlock frowns. He is not used to his brother displaying such insecurity. For the most part, in their relationship, it had been the other way around. He thinks for a bit before replying to his brother’s text.

_Sherlock? – MH_

_Brother mine, I only want you. And you are exemplary partner material. As I said earlier, the only one for me. And I will keep telling you this every day. And showing you when you come home. – SH_

_I don’t know how else to prove it to you. – SH_

_Marshall noticed that I was thinking about you all evening. – SH_

_If you don’t want me to see Marshall – I won’t. – SH_

_I am sorry, lover mine. – MH_

_Us, being apart for so long, amplifies our feelings – the good and the bad. – MH_

_There is no need to apologize for things we cannot control, brother mine. I love you. – SH_

_And I do see the wisdom of having a beard. Especially one who’s company you tolerate. I would not want you to be subjected to Dr. Watson’s rotating catch of the week special – so to speak. – MH_

_Thank you, darling mine. – SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> otolaryngologist - ears, nose, throat specialist - pretty much a half surgical/medical profession. Can also be referred to as an ENT surgeon. 
> 
> de nada - you are welcome (Spanish)
> 
> My muse went straight to work apparently, so this happened. I am going to go hit the books for a little while.   
> Hope the OCs were alright :)  
> Not sure when Chapter 5 will come up. I haven't started it yet.   
> I've decided to extend this story's scope to beyond Sherlock's and Mycroft's reunion, which was the original plan. I am enjoying this world I built a little too much. 
> 
> Thanks for all the support <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spends some time with Marshall. Mycroft has some bad news.

** Day 18: Hyde Park  **

“That is absolutely crazy!” Marshall shakes his head, as Sherlock finishes recounting his deductions and tale of a nasty dismembering hematologist. “And, he made slides out of his victims? How macabre.” Marshall smiles, as he watches Sherlock throw a blue frisbee in the air. “You know, I actually started working at that hospital – the Royal London – two days ago. I haven’t heard a peep about this serial killer.”

Two energetic bundles of fur – one large, one small – bound gracefully across the slightly damp spring grass, chasing their flying blue prey in a chorus of happy barks and yaps. Their tails windmill wildly behind them.

_How is your pseudo-date going, brother mine? – MH_

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s bad publicity.” He adds, “Besides, I deduce you spent more time over the last two days sitting in front of a computer, doing training modules or something else equally tedious. And if you want gossip, try the ward nurses or the administrative assistants.” He laughs as he sees Socrates, the little German Shepherd, jump futilely to retrieve the hovering disc, as Tian, the much larger and experienced Irish Setter, easily catches it in her maw.

_The dogs are cute, lover mine. – SH_

“You are right. Fucking hell.” Marshall scratches his hair. There’s no product in it today. Sherlock remembers that Marshall had used a bit of gel and had teased it into rakish looking spikes during their previous ‘date’. It had been Marshall’s only disorderly attribute in his otherwise meticulous physical appearance.  Marshall continues. “It’s been nothing but ethics seminars, orientations and other administrative shite for me. Also, I have to get recertified for advanced life support next week. Fuck it all. Should have just stayed in bloody Cambridge.”

_I hope they are the only things that you find ‘cute’. – MH_

Sherlock rolls his eyes at both the MHs in his life. He’s heard John complain enough about these certifications over the years. “Regardless of where you work, you would have to redo the ALS retraining anyways.”

_We can get a dog – if you want one. – MH_

“Let a man have a proper whinge,” Marshall groans, as he retrieves the frisbee from Tian. “Facts can go straight to hell.” He then looks at Sherlock. He says teasingly, “Are you texting your beau?”

_A topic for future discussion. They do require time and responsibility. But I would like one, someday, eventually. – SH_

Sherlock actually blushes. He is not used to other people talking about his relationship, aside from Anthea.

“He is a lucky man, whoever he is. You obviously love and care for him a lot.” Marshall observes. He then asks concernedly, “Is he okay with this beard business? If I was him, I would be jealous as hell.”

_And yes, they are the only things in this park I find cute, brother dear. – SH_

“He sees the merit of it.” Sherlock acknowledges, “But, emotionally – for him – it’s evidently difficult. But, he says he prefers this than John setting me up with every available man in the country he deems worthy.”

Socrates nuzzles the bottom of Sherlock’s trousers, compelling the consulting detective to sit down on the grass, stains be damned. He roughhouses with the puppy, who loves it. Tian walks over and sits next to Sherlock. She rests her head on Sherlock’s elbow. Marshall takes out his phone from a pocket of his jeans.

Marshall visibly shudders, “What a terrible situation! Here, why don’t I take a picture of you and the dogs, and you can send it off to your boyfriend, or whatever term you prefer to call him. Smile!” He snaps a few.

“Thank you,” Sherlock examines the pictures that Marshall has sent to his phone. He picks the best one and texts it to his brother.

_On the contrary, lover mine, there is something else in the park that is cute. – MH_

Sherlock flushes furiously.

_I beg of you, brother mine, that you do not continue that thought! – SH_

_You are too cute, little brother. – MH_

Marshall grins widely, enjoying the expressions play out on Sherlock’s face. “I can see that the flirtations are progressing nicely.”

“He called me cute!” Sherlock exclaims, with horror.

Marshall laughs so hard that both Tian and Socrates look at their master with concern. “I can’t say he’s wrong though.”

_By the way, Anthea has procured my plane ticket to London. If all goes well, I will be on British soil in three days. – MH_

Sherlock flips him the bird. Marshall just laughs even harder.

“You seeing him this weekend?” Marshall calms down enough to ask.

_I cannot wait, lover mine. – SH_

Sherlock sighs dejectedly although he feels happier that there seems to be an end date to his lover’s exile, “He’s abroad. Hopefully he will be back soon.”

_I should not have anything on my schedule on the day I arrive. – MH_

_Save it for me, mon amour? – MH_

“Has he been away long?” Marshall inquires further, “Sorry, I am just curious and being nosy.”

_Of course! I will even forgive you for calling me cute! – SH_

“Weeks.” Sherlock says, “For work.” He looks at Marshall’s face and deduces his next question. “No, it’s very rare that he has to be away from England this long.”

There is a drop of rain that falls on Sherlock’s nose.

“Fuck!” Marshall exclaims, “Of course it pours when the forecast says it won’t.” He holds out a hand to Sherlock who takes it. Marshall pulls him up from the grass with gentle force.

_It’s a date. – MH_

_And you aren’t just cute – you are beautiful, brilliant, incandescent and most importantly, mine. – MH_

Sherlock brushes the debris off his bum. He knows that there are grass stains at the back of his trousers.

_Always yours, brother mine. – SH_

“My flat? We can go play billiards downstairs in the rec room.” Marshall offers, while leashing up his dogs. He hands Socrates’ leash to Sherlock.

“You ready to lose again?” Sherlock smirks as they leave the park.

“As far as I recall, we tied last time.” Marshall says seriously, “We can even play table tennis.”

“The game is on!”

They briskly walk, as the rain begins to mercilessly fall.

Neither had brought an umbrella.

.

.

** Day 20: 221B Baker Street **

“How was your date the other day with Marshall?” John asks, as he sets out the Japanese takeout on the kitchen table.

Sherlock helps himself to a plate and a pair of chopsticks. “We went to Hyde Park with his dogs, conversed and went to his flat when it rained. Shot some pool, played some table tennis, watched a movie – _Inception_ and had takeout.” He grabs some rice, unagi, assorted sashimi and some vegetable stir-fry to load onto his plate.

“That sounds, surprisingly, normal.” John picks the gyoza, some assorted tempura and some seaweed salad for his own plate. He gives an already fed Rosie a stuffed purple elephant to play with at the high chair. “You know, I was expecting more dead bodies.”

Sherlock winks, “Well, nothing can be as eventful as our first night as flatmates.”

John laughs. “True. Did you enjoy it?”

“He’s acceptable company.” Sherlock bites into his unagi. “We have some mutual interests.” And, that he was also someone Sherlock can talk to about his actual relationship – albeit in abstract terms. A bonus.

“So,” John has a glint in his eye that means he is up to no good, “Did you guys – you know –“

“Have sex, John?” Sherlock puts on a bored expression. “Please, I am not that easy.”

Sherlock is saved when his phone rings.

It’s from Mycroft.

“I actually do have to take this, John.” Sherlock leaps up from his chair and sprints into his room. He slams the door behind him. He is worried; the anxiety gnaws at his stomach. This is the first time Mycroft has called since he had been away.

“Brother mine,” Sherlock answers as he flings himself into bed.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is a mixture of pure exhaustion and despair.

“What is wrong? Are you still flying back to London tomorrow?” Sherlock asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

“No, I won’t be coming back tomorrow. Our Ambassador to China has managed to torch the entire series of delicate negotiations that we had conducted over the last year or so over trade. It is an absolute diplomatic catastrophe! I can’t tell you what he did – it’s classified – but it has destroyed a lot of Chinese goodwill towards our country. I need to stay on to clean up what I can of this mess. My best guess is that it will take about a week longer. I am sorry, lover mine. I didn’t want to tell you via text.”

“I understand.” Sherlock manages to get out. He did not want to burden his brother with his own needy emotions. He could sense that Mycroft was reaching the end of his own rope on the other end.

“I probably won’t be as available via text as I was the last few weeks. Text me anyways, I will try and answer when I can.” Mycroft adds, slightly calmer. “Be patient a little longer, little brother.”

“Alright.” Sherlock simply acknowledges.

He feels absolutely numb.

“I love you.” Mycroft says fiercely and desperately. “I swear I will make it up to you when I come back, darling mine. I have to go; the Chinese Secretary-General is coming in five. Take care!”

“I love you too.” Sherlock breathes quietly, so that John cannot overhear.

He hears the click of Mycroft ending the call. Sherlock buries himself in his quilt and pillows and tries not to cry.

Another week. It might as well be an eternity.

He clenches his blanket in his fists, allowing the sheer agony of their separation to flood his nerves. He writhes on the bed and allows a few tears to fall. He sobs, muffling the sounds with his pillow and high-thread count bedsheet.

This feels worse than the withdrawals of cocaine, of heroin. This emotional pain.

Mycroft is oxygen, and he is asphyxiating without him.

But he won’t go there, the drugs. He won’t numb his pain. It would be selfish.

He will be strong.

For there was no better feeling in the world than being in love with and being loved by his most favourite person in the world. It is worth it.

Caring is an advantage.

But, he didn’t have to endure it alone. John might be here, but he doesn’t know.

_Can I come over? – SH_

There is a half a minute pause, before the text comes.

_I will be home at 10 PM. Need to buy some groceries and take Tian and Socrates out. – ZW_

_I shouldn’t be alone tonight. – SH_

_Understood. See you. – ZW_

Sherlock glances at the time. He would have to kill an hour, before walking to Marshall’s flat near Hyde Park. He checks his mirror and wipes whatever snot and moisture that has accumulated on his face. His eyelids are slightly puffy, and his nose was red. He wouldn’t be able to finish the dinner he had started earlier – he is too queasy for that. He flings the door of his room open and strides out.

He ignores John’s concerned looks, fetches his violin case and takes out his Strad. Following his usual ritual, he rosins his bow, tightens it and tunes the strings of his instrument. It calms him, somewhat. With the violin tucked under his chin, he draws the bow across the strings – one smooth and sustained tone. Then a melody. An idée fixe.

It accompanies him constantly in his auditory cortex – Mycroft’s melody. He’s never played it when John was home, but it hardly mattered now. He lets the notes ring, pure, no vibrato. And, with a dramatic flourish, he dives into a dizzying cascade of notes – Paganini-esque – and begins his lament, pouring all the anguish he has kept bottled up from the last few weeks. The idée fixe comes and goes and mutates, manifesting in variations of different characters; as a quiet but desperate pizzicato, as an intense sweeping lyrical melody, as painful dissonance and as furious and breathtaking double-stops and triple-stops. He even throws in a touch of pentatonic colouring here and there – the tonality referencing that Chinese political crises were the sources of his strife. Sherlock does not know how long he plays, but he is physically and emotionally drained towards the end. He drops into a bittersweet nocturne based around the precious notes that represent his heart.

As the last note dies, Sherlock puts his violin away. He grabs his phone, keys and wallet, his coat and scarf and walks straight out of the flat without a word.

.

.

** Day 20: Marshall’s Flat **

When Sherlock arrives at Marshall’s flat, the physician had not arrived home yet. He sneaks into the building just as someone else walks out the front door and walks up the stairs to the third floor – skipping the elevator. He enters the six-digit code for the electronic lock on Marshall’s door and enters. The flat is spacious, with three bedrooms. It had belonged to Marshall’s parents who were real estate agents. He flicks on the light with the switch near the front door and toes off his shoes as Marshall follows the Asian custom on no shoes at home. The walls are whitewashed, the wooden floor is still cluttered with unpacked cardboard boxes and the few pieces of furniture are made up of good quality wood. He walks to the living room, and drops into the white plushy couch, facing the large wall-mounted flat screen TV.

_Sherlock! Where did you go? – JW_

_What happened? – JW_

_Is it a danger night? – JW_

_I haven’t heard you play like that since Irene! – JW_

Sherlock entertains himself by examining the contents of the flat. Marshall had unpacked the gaming systems and had them set up in the stand below the TV – he had evidently been playing Mario Kart the previous night with a group of friends online. There was a collection of hand-painted ceramic horses of different sizes and shapes on the top of the stand, along with a porcelain pot containing lucky bamboo – the handiwork of Marshall’s mother who had been here yesterday to help her only son unpack.

_If you don’t answer me in the next ten minutes, I am going to text your brother. – JW_

_I know you took your phone with you. – JW_

_Come on, Sherlock, message me, please. – JW_

He turns around when he hears the sounds of the electronic lock being unlocked. Marshall enters, with his two dogs in tow. He carries groceries which he drops in front of the fridge. Sherlock deduces that he had gotten off work two hours ago, that he had been in the operating room today and that he had eaten a beef shawarma for dinner. Marshall grabs a fluffy white towel to wipe the dirt off his dogs’ feet. Socrates sees Sherlock and lets out an excited bark. The puppy makes a beeline for the consulting detective and jumps up into his lap. Sherlock runs his hands into the soft fur and gets a few licks in return.

_I am fine, John. Please don’t contact Mycroft. I am at Marshall’s. – SH_

“Hope you didn’t wait too long.” Marshall says as he starts putting his shopping away. He didn’t even bat an eye at the fact that Sherlock had broken into his flat. “Boy, it’s been a long day.”

“Not too long.” Sherlock replies. He waits and pets the wiggly German Shepherd while Marshall finishes all of his duties, including setting out fresh water for Tian and Socrates.

Finally, Marshall grabs two beers from the fridge and sprawls down next to Sherlock on the couch. He opens both bottles and hands one over. They enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence.

“So, do you want to talk about it?” Marshall inquires delicately. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’ve actually been crying.”

“Do you actually want to deduce me, Marshall?” Sherlock looks amused.

“I would say it’s about your man.” Marshall begins, “I don’t think he’s dumped you – you would be a worse wreck – I’d think. Same with the cheating. Oh, right – you mentioned he was abroad. Did his return get postponed? Did he get injured?”

Sherlock cringes at the first two possibilities – he couldn’t imagine Mycroft doing either of those. It was too terrible to contemplate. And, Mycroft had always put Sherlock’s wellbeing over his own. And as for the fourth possibility – Sherlock thinks that he would have already bought a ticket to China by now.

“Postponed. Something came up in his line of work.” Sherlock replies. “It’s already been weeks – and another week feels like –“ He finally takes a mouthful of beer.

“Forever.” Marshall finishes for him.

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees sadly. “Exactly.”

“I can’t even imagine loving someone the way you do. To miss them so much that it hurts.” Marshall says. There is a wistful look on his face. “I’ve had relationships, but never one that lasted beyond a few weeks. How long have you guys been together?”

“Seven months.” Sherlock says. “But I’ve known him all my life.”

“Boy next door kind of situation?” Marshall asks.

Sherlock actually laughs, “Kind of.”

“Romantic.” Marshall says. He winks and asks, “How’s the sex?”

“You know, I just barely escaped John who was interrogating me about our supposed sex life.” Sherlock groans audibly.

Marshall laughs wickedly, “Do you actually put out on the second date?”

Sherlock thinks about it.

After Sherrinford, Mycroft and he had decided to meet up weekly to discuss his newfound memories and patch up their fraternal relationship. On the third meeting, he had accidentally touched his brother’s hand while they had been cooking beef Kalbi and pork belly over the table grill at Sherlock’s favourite Korean restaurant. Mycroft had been flipping the meat with the tongs (ever the older brother), and Sherlock had reached over to grab the fish cakes on his brother’s side of the table. The contact had caught them both off guard and both reacted as if they had been burned by real fire.

Afterwards, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice all the traditional tells of attraction writ all over his brother: the dilated pupils, the racing pulses of the carotids, the slight blush on the cheeks and even the mirroring! Sherlock would lean in, and his brother would too. He licked his lips thirty seconds later, and his brother copied the exact movement two seconds later. Flirtatious eye gymnastics were received and returned. Even the conversation started having a risqué flair to it. Sherlock remembers slowly moving his knees forward under the table until they pressed against his brother’s. An electrifying, most delicious sensation tingled up his spine. Mycroft did not visibly react, nor did he make any effort to move his legs away. And, when Sherlock tried to move his knees back, Mycroft followed, firmly maintaining the physical contact. Sherlock had thought his brother would do the decent and socially acceptable thing and put an end to this unbrotherly choreography – but it never happened. Even the shared elaborate ice cream dessert with shaved ice and red bean became the subject of a game of subtle sexual subtext.   

After the bill was paid, his brother had whisked him into a nearby deserted alley with a known surveillance camera blind spot, caressed Sherlock’s left cheekbone with his bare fingers and whispered tenderly in his ear.

“If you want this, brother mine, you better be sure. Think it over. I will want everything you are willing to give to me. And, I am willing to give you everything that you will let me give to you, little brother. When we have dinner next week, I shall ask you for your answer.”

Mycroft had then leaned forward to press a kiss on Sherlock’s right cheek, winked and left him in the alley – dazed – as Baker Street was a short walk away. To this day, Sherlock wasn’t even sure how he managed to walk home that night.

His entire world had shifted on its axis in less than two hours.

“The fourth one.” Sherlock finally responds.

Marshall grins knowingly, “Reminiscing, I see. Well, if we want to deceive the public about our relationship, we have to know the basics about our imaginary sex life.”

“The sex is fantastic.” Sherlock gives in, “I’ve only had it with him, but as scientifically unsound this seems, I know there will not be better.”

“Damn.” Marshall shakes his head, “Okay, so we theoretically have amazing sex. I can work with that. That’s good for my ego!”

Sherlock laughs. He then says seriously, “Do you remember my deductions about you? I thought you were looking for something serious – not be a beard for a consulting detective.”

“I changed my mind.” Marshall says honestly, “This is much more fun. And interesting. And I would rather have regular fun company than a few weeks of average flings with usually boring men. And I can discreetly get a leg over if I need to, so you don’t need to worry about me in that regard.”

“Can we talk about something else besides sex?” Sherlock finally asks. “Take my mind off my globe-trotting significant other.”

“Oh, but of course!” Marshall takes a few seconds to collect his thoughts, and then starts recounting, “Well, today I got to scrub in for the resection of an oropharyngeal tumour…”

Sherlock sinks deeply into the softness of the couch, closes his eyes and enjoys his fake boyfriend’s detailed narrative on how to perform a neck reconstruction surgery with a computer-controlled robot and the comforting weight of one snoozing German Shepherd puppy in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tian - 天 - sky (Mandarin)
> 
> unagi - barbecued eel, usually eaten over white rice
> 
> idée fixe - fixed idea (French): in music refers to a recurring theme 
> 
> Kalbi - marinated short ribs (Korean)
> 
> oropharyngeal - relation to mouth and pharynx 
> 
> pharynx - part of throat behind mouth and nasal cavity, and above the larynx and esophagus
> 
> I love writing dramatic!Sherlock. He's so much fun!  
> Not sure when Chapter 6 will pop up. I wrote most of 5 while sitting in a car.  
> Probably take longer than the other installments. I actually do got to hit the books.  
> Thank you all for your support!  
> As always, comments are appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy calls. Anthea schemes. Mrs. Hudson pries. There is a night out. Mycroft finally gets on a plane.

** Day 21: Marshall’s Flat **

Sherlock wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. He panics a bit, but then realizes that he had crashed in Marshall’s guest bedroom sometime past midnight. They had ended the night by watching _When Harry Met Sally_ ; it had turned out that Marshall’s guilty pleasure was romantic comedies. He panics again, because he realizes that he had never informed Mycroft that he had intended to stay over at Marshall’s last evening. He suddenly feels terribly guilty.

He quickly texts.

_Spent night at Marshall’s. – SH_

_I am sorry I didn’t inform you last night, brother mine. – SH_

He gets out of bed, redresses himself in the clothes he wore last night, takes care of his morning routine in the adjacent bathroom with the supplies that Marshall has kindly left out, and heads out to the living room. It is late morning, and Sherlock can deduce that Marshall had long left for work.

There is a note on the dining table. Marshall writes in a beautifully legible cursive, contrary to the usual stereotypes about doctors.

_Sherlock,_

_Gone to work. There is breakfast in the pot at the stove. My mum made me some xiǎo lóng bāo a few days back, so hope you enjoy! There is soy sauce and black vinegar in the fridge. Help yourself to anything else! Anastasia, my dog walker, will be here around noon to take the dogs out for a romp in the park._

_ZW_

There is a gentle thumping noise, and Sherlock could feel the cold nose of a curious German Shepherd rubbing against his bare foot.

“Morning, Socrates,” Sherlock bends down to give the puppy some attention. He lets the dog nibble at his fingers.

As he is reheating Marshall’s thoughtfully prepared breakfast, his phone rings. Sherlock sighs and looks at the display. It is Mummy. He has been ignoring her for a few days – scratch that, the entire week and more. Ever since the whole Sherrinford affair, things have been strained between his parents and Mycroft and himself. His parents still haven’t forgiven Mycroft for the whole Eurus thing, and his secret relationship with Mycroft just made everything feel even more awkward. He sighs.

Against his better judgement, he picks up.

“Mummy.”

“Sherlock! You naughty boy – you have been deliberately ignoring my calls!” Mummy scolds.

Sherlock winces, “I’ve been busy Mummy. Solving cases. Having a life.”

“A life?” There is a sound that almost resembles a snort. “Have you and the good doctor finally gotten together?”

 _Oh, it’s going to be one of those conversations._ Sherlock groans inaudibly.

“No, Mummy,” Sherlock replies. He could never imagine being in a relationship with John. Especially now that he had Mycroft. Even Marshall was a substantially better candidate. “John and I are not together.”

“Well, maybe you should consider it.” Mummy says in a tone that makes Sherlock cringe. “Rosie is the closest thing I am going to get as a grandchild at this rate.”

Sherlock wonders if there is wisdom in hanging up the phone right at this instant. He intuitively senses that nothing good will come out of this conversation. There are no good options. He quips sarcastically instead, “I am sure that is a more than adequate reason to pursue a civil partnership with someone, Mummy.”

“Don’t be smart with me, Sherlock.” Mummy responds, “You haven’t even been in a relationship!”

 _Yes, I have._ Sherlock thinks somewhat bitterly. _And I can never tell you or Father about it._ He tries a new tactic, “I am sure you have a more pressing reason for calling than to talk about my personal life, Mummy.”

“Have you visited your sister lately?”

 _Fuck. On second thought, maybe the previous topic of conversation was the better option._ Sherlock muses.

“No, Mummy, I have not.”

Mycroft and he had mutually decided to not step foot in Sherrinford after they had gotten together. There was no doubt that Eurus could deduce their change in relationship in an instant and somehow make things worse for them. Besides, the last couple of times Sherlock had visited, she hadn’t said a word, or reacted in any meaningful manner.

“She’s your sister! Sherlock... family is all we got at the end.”

“I believe the actual quote, Mummy, is that ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’.” Sherlock bites back all the words he wants to say about Eurus wanting him to kill Mycroft. He and Mycroft had agreed to not reveal the details of the ghastly games to their parents. Sherlock seriously questions the merits of that decision in light of this miserable minefield of a conversation. He reflexively decides on a safer topic of discussion. A lesser of two evils. “I have been seeing someone, Mummy.”

His mother’s tone and attitude brighten immediately, “Have you, Sherlock? That is wonderful. You should bring him over sometime. Maybe for my 70th birthday party! Consider it your present for me. You aren’t wiggling out of this one, my dear boy! And bring John and Rosie too! I will call you with the details! Take care!”

His mother hangs up strategically before Sherlock could get another word in, and he immediately rummages Marshall’s cupboards for a bottle of paracetamol.

He takes two.   

_Platonically, I hope? – MH_

_Of course, brother mine. I couldn’t bear to stay at home last night. – SH_

Sherlock texts Marshall.

_Cat is out of the bag now. I may have mentioned to my mother that I am seeing someone, and we may have been ‘invited’ to her 70 th birthday party. – SH_

Mycroft sends a series of texts a minute later.

_I just wish it was exclusively me that gets to comfort you. And be your confidant. – MH_

_But that is a selfish wish. I am glad there is someone who can be there when I cannot be. – MH_

_You have no idea how much I wish to be in London right now, brother mine. If the Beijing debacle had not happened, I would have arrived at Heathrow by mid-afternoon today. – MH_

_I know, lover mine. I long for you too. Every particle and space within me feels empty without you. And you will always be my confidant, my lover, my brother – my partner in all things in life. – SH_

_As you are mine, brother dear. All of those things – and more. – MH_

Sherlock goes back into the kitchen and removes the plate of Shanghainese delicacies from the pot with a pair of tongs for lifting plates. He goes into the fridge to get the vinegar and the soy sauce and mixes the two in a porcelain condiment dish. He also finds a box of sweetened soy milk and pours himself a glass. He grabs a pair of wooden chopsticks and a spoon. Finally, he sits down and indulges in breakfast. Tian, who had been wandering around the perimeter of the flat, lies down at his feet. Socrates had ran off sometime.

_I had a disastrous conversation with Mummy today. – SH_

_It involved relationships, Eurus and her 70 th birthday. – SH_

_And grandchildren! – SH_

_How ghastly! – MH_

_And I told her I was seeing someone as a necessary defensive maneuver. – SH_

_I am sorry, brother mine. That sounds like hell. – MH_

_She wants to meet my boyfriend. – SH_

_Mummy’s already met your boyfriend! – MH_

Sherlock laughs.

_She might actually have a myocardial infarction or an aneurysm if she actually knew. And all our worries would be gone. – SH_

Sherlock bites the top off the soup dumpling and blows at the hot soup inside. He slurps at the soup. He dips it in the sauce and bites into the meat and traces of shrimp within. Marshall’s mother is a culinary wonder. Tian makes a whining noise under the table. She paws at Sherlock’s legs. It almost sounds like begging.

_We can’t have that, brother mine. – MH_

_Too exciting for a 70 th birthday party, I think. – MH_

_If I bring Marshall – I think he’s going to figure out who my boyfriend is. He’s better at observations and deductions than your average goldfish! – SH_

_But, somehow, I don’t think he would care. – SH_

_We will deal with it as it arises. But, I do trust your judgement in the character of people. – MH_

There is another brief pause. Sherlock works on eating and drinking.

_Mummy is going to undoubtedly invite Dr. Watson and his child as well. – MH_

_Oh, she is. – SH_

_We might all have to share a room together. I certainly have no desire to room with Dr. Watson. – MH_

_That sounds like the premise of some porn, brother mine. The fake boyfriend, the real boyfriend and the protagonist.– SH_

_I do not share, lover mine. – MH_

_I do not expect you to. – SH_

_Neither do I. – SH_

_The good news is that we can leave for Greece a few days after the party. – MH_

_Anthea has already started looking into arrangements in her spare time. – MH_

_Late May/Early June sounds like an optimal time to go. – SH_

_Agreed, lover mine. – MH_

_My next appointment is coming. I will text you later, little brother. – MH_

Sherlock finishes his breakfast during the texting. He does not give Tian any of the food, nor did he wish to part with any of the precious morsels. Marshall had been rather adamant about not feeding human food to his dogs on their previous ‘date’. Sherlock does the dishes. There is no use in being inconsiderate when one’s fake boyfriend has been nothing but considerate of Sherlock’s needs.

_That sounds like fun. – ZW_

_It will be ghastly. – SH_

_Even better. – ZW_

_Thank you for breakfast and everything else. – SH_

_Anytime. – ZW_

.

.

** Day 22: Conference Room near Mycroft’s Whitehall Office **

“Sherlock…” Anthea begins to say, evidently delivering bad news. “On the afternoon of the day your brother is back – the PM wants him to supervise some delicate economic negotiations with the diplomats from the ASEAN bloc of countries. And then for the evening, he RSVP’d to the Earl of Wiltshire’s party, which is to be held in the same building. He wanted to get out of going after the Beijing debacle, but it was too late to politely decline at that point.”

Sherlock slumps down. His brother goes to a handful of carefully selected social events every year, to keep the rich and powerful aware of his shadowy presence. Unconsciously, he pulls at his curls in distress – at the fact that there was one more day that he was not going to see his brother.

“It is also one of those parties that I have to go find him an escort.” Anthea continues, while Sherlock completely collapses on the table in dismay. She reaches over to pat one of Sherlock’s arms in a soothing manner.

“He didn’t tell me.” Sherlock whispers, sadly.

“He probably forgot all about it, to be honest.” Anthea says, “Our Ambassador to China really fucked up. Your brother’s been very busy trying to salvage what he can of the British-Chinese relationship. Even our communications have been limited.”

“So, did you find him the escort?” Sherlock dares to ask.

Anthea shakes her head. “I had a better idea in mind.” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. “Why don’t you go as the escort? I will help you with everything, but you will have to cross-dress, I am afraid.”

“Is there something against male escorts?” Sherlock looks absolutely bewildered.

“Unfortunately, despite the social progress in the general public, the elite tend to cling onto rather conservative lines of thinking.” Anthea shakes her head with disapproval. “The stigma still exists.” She says cunningly, “I know you have disguised yourself as a woman – in your cases and even your work with Moriarty’s network. I’ve seen the pictures and the CCTV footage. If you can handle that, you can handle the gentry. You will be fine.”

“I guess I will have to create a new persona.” Sherlock muses, feeling still somewhat numb, but in a good way. “Something amusing for my brother. I take it that this is coming out his bank account?”

Anthea grins. “I will get you whatever clothes, makeup and accessories you need. Don’t worry about the cost. I am sure your brother would consider it a most worthy and priceless experience.”

“Are you telling him?” Sherlock asks.

“Should I tell him?” Anthea has a positively evil grin on her face.

Sherlock looks at Anthea in awe. “I never knew you could be like this. Why are you doing this?”

“Because, your brother is miserable, and you are miserable – and I know how you felt about the other party that happened months back. Of course, this isn’t a stunt we can repeat regularly – maybe once every few years?” Anthea explains.

Sherlock stands up and crushes Anthea in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I will also get you any relevant paperwork for your persona.” Anthea adds after Sherlock finally lets her go. “Just to make everything watertight. Just figure out everything you need today, give me a list, and it should be ready before the party. We will meet up before, and I can help you get ready. Think my flat will be best.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “You are amazing.” And then he eyes her suspiciously, “This has nothing to do with any sordid fantasies you have, does it?”

Anthea laughs, “Let’s just say this will be a mutually beneficial experience for everyone involved.”

.

.

** Day 24: 221A Baker Street **

_Saint-Saëns – Violin Concerto #3 in b minor, Op 61. You interested? – ZW_

_Work is notoriously difficult to interpret well. Too many amateurs ruin it. How about more details – like when, who, where and why? – SH_

_Last minute concert set up by the Barbican – four days from now. One day only. Tickets are on sale now. Augustin Hadelich. Your fake boyfriend wants a night out. – ZW_

_Also, Hadelich is playing some Sarasate and some Paganini out in the foyer before the concert. – ZW_

_We could go to that Greek place that you mentioned liking beforehand? – ZW_

Sherlock counts the days. The concert would be exactly on the same night that Mycroft is flying back. It would be a worthy distraction. He won’t rest easy until big brother is actually sitting in the plane and in the air. It helps that there is no one currently better on this planet than Hadelich to play Sarasate.

A truly enticing offer.

_Hadelich is adequate. Sarasate too! Greek sustenance! You certainly know the way to a man’s heart. I accept your proposal, fake boyfriend. – SH_

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson interrupts just as Sherlock was about to mount the stairs to his flat.

Sherlock stops, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

_Careful with that flirting, Sherlock. I don’t want your actual boyfriend to be mad at me! – ZW_

“Care to join me for tea?” Mrs. Hudson then adds with a glimmer in her eye, “I’ve got those ginger nuts –“

“Say no more!” Sherlock turns around and strides past Mrs. Hudson into her flat. He drops down casually into a chair at the dining table. He grabs a biscuit from the flowery plate and eats it. Mrs. Hudson prepares the tea with great amusement.

_I will buy the tickets. You can get the dinner. – ZW_

_Deal! – SH_

_Should be able to get off work early that day. No OR time scheduled. Only a handful of patients to keep track of. Maybe around 4 PM? – ZW_

“Are you texting that boy of yours?” Mrs. Hudson inquires with a knowing wink.

_I will see you at the restaurant then at 4:30 PM? – SH_

Sherlock looks confused for a second, but he recovers and says, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” He then asks, “Did John gossip again?” It felt very wrong to say that Marshall was his boy. Although it feels very strange to refer to Mycroft in the context of ‘that boy of yours’.

_Got it. Looking forward to it! – ZW_

“Well, John and I had a most enlighteningly conversation last week. You’ve been happier since 221B was rebuilt. And I was always wondering if it was just the sex that was causing it, or if there is a special someone in your life.” Mrs. Hudson explains. “But I can see now that there is.”

“You are absolutely evil, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock shoves another ginger nut in his mouth. “Interrogating me like this.”

 _Brother mine, I am going_ to _Hadelich’s concert in a few days with Marshall. – SH_

Mrs. Hudson ignores him. She says casually. “There was some heartbreaking violin music that I heard the other day.”

“Oh!” Sherlock wonders if this was another time to consider fleeing. Mrs. Hudson can be annoyingly perceptive at times. “I am sure it was played beautifully by a busker out on the street.”

_That sounds awfully like a date, lover mine. Did he offer you Greek food too? – MH_

_Yes, he did. – SH_

“Troubles in paradise?” Mrs. Hudson forges ahead. “Must have been resolved, though. You seem happier. Although, I do wonder… John said you met this boy last week, but the angst in the music suggests much longer.”

_You know, brother mine, you seem like a complicated man, but you really are easy to figure out at times. – MH_

“No, Mrs. Hudson. It’s just the honeymoon phase of the relationship. It’s you know – intense.” Sherlock finds himself explaining. He sighs deeply. “It was over something stupid.”

_Are you saying I am easy, lover mine? – SH_

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson seems to buy that explanation. She gets a dreamy look in her eyes. “That is my favourite part of relationships. And the make-up sex –“

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock’s voice is loud enough to be heard throughout the building.

_Sometimes, yes. But, I love you regardless. Enjoy your ‘date’ with Marshall. I only wish I could take his place. And you know, I love that Greek restaurant as much as you do. – MH_

_We will have the Cyclades together at the very least. – SH_

Mrs. Hudson tuts, “One would think that all the shagging you have been doing would have cured you of your prudishness by now, Sherlock Holmes.”

_That we will, brother mine, that we will. – MH_

.

.

** Day 28: The Barbican – Foyer **

“Here you are, Sherlock,” Marshall presses a wineglass containing chardonnay into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock mumbles his thanks, and Marshall sits down beside him on the large wooden steps, on a soft tan cushion. His fake boyfriend brushes lint off the trousers of his tuxedo. Marshall had changed in the hospital before meeting Sherlock for dinner. There are people gathering around, dressed in their finest suits, tuxes and dresses. The renowned concert violinist, Hadelich, is standing next to the grand piano below (a Fazioli), going through his usual rituals with his Strad in hand, while his accompanist sits casually on the piano bench, looking over his scores. Sherlock never likes deducing musicians before a performance – the data ruins the art. Some things ought to be left as mystery. He sips at his wine, noting that Marshall had picked a nice one from the bar.

He strokes the red tie with the dark dots that he wore with a crisp white shirt and his gray suit – another tie liberated from Mycroft’s collection. For the first time in a while, he feels content and sated – the succulent beef souvlaki, the potatoes, the saganaki (flaming cheese) and baklava had really hit the spot; his lover is sitting at the first-class lounge at Beijing Capital International Airport, waiting for his flight home; he has good company and there is going to be exquisite music. And tomorrow, there is going to be a fun game to play between his brother and him, courtesy of Anthea.

And, sex. Things are definitely looking up.

_Wish you were here. – SH_

Sherlock asks Marshall to take a picture of him, which the physician happily obliges after putting down his own glass of red wine. Sherlock arranges himself in a subtly seductive pose, with his fingers on Mycroft’s tie. Marshall takes a few and sends them over.

_I wish I was there too. – MH_

Sherlock picks a picture and sends it over to Beijing.

“You are a dangerous man.” Marshall looks at him with great amusement. “I didn’t realize I was going to facilitate your foreplay when I signed up for this.”

“You are of great use.” Sherlock says with smirk. “I really ought to thank John.”

_You look delicious, brother mine. – MH_

_Positively edible. – MH_

“I should send him some flowers.” Marshall beams, “My life was boring as hell until I met you.”

_The things I am going to do to you… lover mine. – MH_

Sherlock shudders at the promise in his brother’s text.

_You sitting there in public looking like that. Wearing my tie. – MH_

_It is downright indecent. – MH_

_Looking forward to you undressing me soon. – SH_

_Can’t wait. – MH_

“Maybe with a card that says from a secret gay admirer?” Sherlock grins with mischief.

Marshall laughs delightedly, “Oh, so you’ve noticed too.”

“That John’s bisexual? My arse, your arse – need I say more?” Sherlock says grandly as he presents exhibits A and B.

“No.” Marshall replies, “But, he really couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.”

_I am getting on the flight now, brother dear. – MH_

_Safe travels! I will see you soon. – SH_

_Love you, darling mine. x – MH_

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the x. His brother must really have a serious attack of the sentiment. He shrugs and texts back. He has no qualms about sharing his affections for Mycroft.

_Love you too. x – SH_

He turns off his phone as the piano starts playing the introduction of Sarasate’s _Zapateado_. And, loses himself to the transcendental talents of one who has chosen music as their means of existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xiǎo lóng bāo - 小笼包 - essentially a soup dumpling 
> 
> ASEAN - Association of Southeast Asian Nations
> 
> Hadelich is an actual violinist. Very good. 
> 
> Wow, we have actually hit this part of the story.  
> Thank you for all the support!  
> Now, I should really go hit the books. Damn.  
> It's been so fun writing this. You have no idea :)
> 
> Leave a comment below - I'd appreciate it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Earl of Wiltshire's party. Or, where Sherlock and Mycroft spend a night together (Part I).

**_ Reunion _ **

Mycroft Holmes leans slightly on the stone parapet of the balcony, overlooking the streets of London. It is raining; the raindrops patter in a familiar rhythm that Mycroft’s fingers unconsciously tap out against the gray stone. He wants a cigarette. _Why did we have to quit again?_ He grimaces. The stay in Beijing had been hell in that regard – the majority of politicians there were always lighting up, inside, outside and wherever else. And of course, they politely offered him their cigarettes, along with that damned bái jiǔ at every important meeting. Blasted spirits!

Behind him, indoors, there are the sounds of exhausted diplomats finalizing a fiercely fought over agreement which would bring some prosperity to the country despite the current economic mess. The PM ( _ghastly man!)_ had demanded Mycroft watch over the tedious negotiations. The battle had taken long and had eroded away the last vestiges of Mycroft’s legendary patience – not that he had much left in reserve after the last four weeks. He had escaped as soon as he could. 

Twenty-nine days, ten hours and eight minutes. The temporal separation between now and the last time he had kissed his beloved goodbye. His Sherlock. The time is quantifiable, but qualitatively it feels like an eternity. He might be back in London, but it feels like he has to endure another eternity before being in his lover’s arms again. He needs that desperately. Sherlock might be texting his affections and love to him every day, but Mycroft needs and craves physical affirmation; he needs the cold hard evidence that their love is real. Four weeks is an era in a seven-month relationship.

Especially after a certain otolaryngologist showed up in his brother’s life.

Mycroft does not know if he wants to strangle Dr. Watson or thank him for introducing Sherlock to Dr. Hayes. It had hurt so much when he found out his beloved brother had spent the night with the surgeon on the day he called – regardless of how platonic their relationship was. But, the fact that it was himself that had been the source of his brother’s suffering cut deeper. It also did not help that Sherlock and Dr. Hayes had gotten along like a house on fire, and that Dr. Hayes had wined and dined his brother at one of their favourite restaurants – and took him out to see a concert performed by one of Sherlock’s favourite violinists. Jealousy was a nasty thing.  And, feelings cannot be reasoned into submission. But nevertheless, for his brother – Mycroft tried. And the brotherly aspect of him was happy that someone was there to look after his brother and distract him from considering the old vices when he couldn’t.

And Sherlock had been thoughtful about it. Mycroft knows how much Sherlock despises wearing ties, but every time his little brother had gone out with Dr. Hayes, he had been sporting one of Mycroft’s ties around his neck. He examines the picture that Sherlock had sent to him before his flight yesterday in his mind palace. He had to delete the actual picture off his phone – it cannot be construed as a brotherly photo. He thinks about the last texts they had shared when he was in Beijing, and he permits himself to smile.

His smile doesn’t last though. He still had a ghastly party to attend to. And, an escort to play nice to for the entire evening. Anthea had just sent a text reminding him. Blasted hell – he had forgotten to inform Sherlock about the whole thing. He sighs; it seems like these days, he was always somehow unintentionally hurting his brother, one way or the other. He might as well do the honourable thing. And hope that Sherlock wouldn’t be too mad at him. It had not been a pleasant experience the first time Mycroft had went to a party with an escort earlier on in their relationship. It had required groveling, and Mycroft does not grovel. Not naturally, anyways. Even Anthea had given him a dressing down afterwards when she found out that he had neglected to tell Sherlock beforehand since it had been for work.

He had thought it was no big deal. Oh, how wrong he was!

_I am sorry I didn’t inform you earlier, lover mine – but I have an escort for today’s party. – MH_

_Please forgive me. – MH_

He paces restlessly back and forth across the small balcony.

 _Good god, had he really thought he was above the goldfish?_ Here he was, waiting for an impending judgement from his lover – such a classic scene – one that is played out everywhere, in every past and future era where relationships were and will be present. He then laughs somewhat self-deprecatingly, remembering what his lover had once mentioned to him – _“Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair.”_

He feels his phone vibrate.

_Don’t play too nice, brother mine. – SH_

He laughs in relief.

_I will save all the niceness for you, lover mine. – MH_

_My calendar is empty tomorrow, I hope you will consider filling it. – MH_

_Brother mine, your ‘pick-up lines’ are atrocious. – SH_

_They are not atrocious if they work, brother dear. – MH_

Sherlock does not reply immediately. Mycroft grins.

_I have a case tonight. Won’t be able to text. You will have to save your whinging about the party for another time, brother mine. – SH_

_I will see you tomorrow. – SH_

_I love you. – SH_

Mycroft sighs in disappointment. He had rather hoped that Sherlock might have been able to entertain him via text at the tedious party.

_Be safe. See you tomorrow. I love you too. x – MH_

.

.

Five minutes before the appointed time, Mycroft arrives at the rendezvous location. It is a small discreet room, just off one of the lesser known side entrances of the historical building. After the trade agreement had been signed and witnessed, Mycroft had excused himself from the negotiations. The last thing he had needed was sixth-form level gossip about the party that was happening tonight. There was always something about these events that turned grown men and women into schoolchildren.

He had changed into a fresh three-piece suit and tried to freshen himself up in the washroom. After a red-eye trans-Asia flight and an afternoon full of listening to other people talk, there was only so much he could do about his appearance. Besides, it wasn’t like he was dressing for his lover. He merely had to look acceptable.

There is a small mirror in the room. He sighs at his jetlagged looks.

“Brooding, are we?”

Mycroft whips his head around, to see the woman that had entered the room. She is tall, slender and has all the refined grace of someone who has grown up in an aristocratic household. But, of course, the best escorts knew how to blend in with their surroundings, however upscale.

Oddly enough, Mycroft could not stop staring at her. He notes her dirty-blonde hair, pulled up elegantly in a simple chignon – a calculated ploy to highlight the expanse of pale neck. The make-up is done tastefully to look natural and flatter her bright blue eyes. She wears a long elegant black dress, with what looked like diamond chips on the shoulders, bodice and the bottom hem in intricate patterns. It looks like a dress that would cost an exorbitant sum of money.

“Just woolgathering.” Mycroft finally makes out. He feels very off-kilter. The forties are not an opportune age to second guess his sexuality.

There is a smirk on the escort’s face as she walks closer. It is a look of someone who knows they are attractive and is not afraid to use their assets to get what they want. And the worst thing – Mycroft thought – was that he couldn’t deduce the bloody woman at all. Nothing made sense. This is not how escorts usually behaved. And, if Sherlock knew what kind of crisis his brother was having now – it would not be pleasant.

Bloody hell.

“I take it that you are my date for tonight, Mr. Holmes.” The impertinent escort continues. Her voice is sultry. She holds out an elegantly gloved hand which Mycroft dumbfoundedly grabs.

He cannot stop staring at the musculature of her neck. But then, the haze in his mind palace clears and the data assemble. Everything is clear. How many hours had he spent admiring and worshipping his brother’s neck? Innumerable. It didn’t matter if the masculine laryngeal prominence was covered in skillfully applied makeup, or that the few telltale moles and freckles were smoothed over and concealed. He would recognize Sherlock’s body anywhere.

His sexuality crisis is resolved. His body had known that the escort was his lover before his brain had figured it out.

He is relieved.

 _Have a case, my arse._ Mycroft thinks grimly as he grasps his ‘escort’s’ other hand firmly. He can see in his brother’s eyes, despite the contacts, that he knows that the game was up. Sherlock even looks nervous, like a child expecting a reprimand.

There are no cameras in the room. Mycroft suddenly understands why Anthea had chosen this room. Generally speaking, it is not wise to go somewhere with an escort without some sort of surveillance if one was high up on the political food chain. He lets go of his brother’s hands and gives the room another detailed inspection for potential bugs. When he is satisfied, he holds his arms out.

“Lover mine,” Mycroft’s voice is filled with unrestrained emotion.

They embrace. Mycroft almost sobs with relief at being reunited with his beloved. It feels like coming home, even though he has been in London for almost half a day. He lets his hands wander around his brother’s body, noting the extensiveness of the disguise. There is a corset and a push-up bra holding what was possibly a silicone breast prosthesis which shapes his brother’s body into unfamiliar curves. Mycroft observes that Sherlock is wearing other prosthetics in his face, altering his striking features. He resists the urge to kiss, not wanting to smudge his brother’s meticulously applied makeup. Instead, he settles for resting and nuzzling his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. They stay like this, melded together for minutes.

“Took you long enough.” Sherlock says reproachfully after they broke apart. “Any longer, and I would have had to give Anthea a massage.”

Mycroft is flabbergasted, “You two bet on this?”

His brother smiles enigmatically.

“May I inquire in regard to what Anthea is to do for you?”  

Sherlock’s smile grows wider. A clear indication that whatever this something is – it involves Mycroft.

“On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.” Mycroft amends quickly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes slowly, “Oh, I think you might like it. But, let’s not spoil it.” He then adds teasingly, “I sincerely hope you do not gape at all your escorts like that.”

“Certainly not.” Mycroft is affronted. “Never.”

“I was worried that you would be angry. For taking risks like this.” His brother admits in a quieter voice.

“You will have to behave the entire night, I am afraid.” Mycroft cautions. He continues. “But, angry – no. Thrilled, more like. Now what am I to call you?”

“Ariadne.” Sherlock replies.

“It will do.” Mycroft nods. “So, Ariadne, shall we?” He puts his hand directly on the small of Sherlock’s back.

He sees Sherlock shiver at the intimate and possessive touch. Mycroft guides his brother firmly but gently out of the room, mindful to not step on the hem of the exquisite dress. He is certainly going to take full advantage of all the unique liberties that this unexpected and particular situation affords him to have.

.

.

Sherlock has never imagined that he would be so happy at a dull party full of Lord and Lady So-and-sos. He is led deftly by Mycroft from guest to guest; his brother’s non-dominant hand is constantly attached to the lumbar region of Sherlock’s spine. It is fascinating to watch his big brother in action; Mycroft knows who everyone was, the right words to say, and how to escape when the conversation grew stale. All Sherlock had to do was smile, exchange a few cordial pleasantries, and look pretty. And, focus on the delicious sensation caused by his brother’s touch.

In a way, Sherlock feels like a trophy wife with his ridiculously expensive clothes and jewelry, and with the way Mycroft seems delighted to show him off. But, yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. To be in his lover’s arms, in public – that is what mattered. Sherlock had never thought he was the type of person to engage in public displays of affection, but evidently, he was wrong.

They have even conversed with Lady Smallwood and her new boyfriend, a celebrity chef. At a previous point in time, Mycroft’s hand had slipped from Sherlock’s spine to his hip, essentially wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist. A rather possessive gesture. Mycroft rolls his eyes when he sees Sherlock smile with the self-satisfaction of a victorious lover after they walk away from Lady Smallwood. But, Sherlock catches his brother’s smile a few seconds after – evidently ecstatic to be considered a prize worth winning.

Eventually, Mycroft grows tired of socialization, and leads Sherlock to a discreet table at a corner of the enormous room. This particular corner is lit with dim but warm light from electric candles. There is no one around within a few metre radius, and the room is loud enough to drown out their voices.

“This is thrilling, is it not?” Sherlock asks after they sit down.

Mycroft gazes at him intensely, his voice husky. “You have no idea what it means to me that I can do this in public. It is beyond thrilling.” His brother reaches for Sherlock’s gloved hands and holds them. He lightly caresses the soft leather which covered Sherlock’s palms. “Four weeks, lover mine. That I have not touched you. Or kissed you.”

“It means more than I thought it would.” Sherlock says reflectively, “I never thought I would be the type to want to hold hands, or kiss in public. But, I do, in fact, want it.” He points to his left cheek. “Very much.”

His brother interprets his request correctly. He slides and leans forward to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

“I missed you.” Mycroft whispers. He confesses. “I was worried and jealous, especially when Dr. Hayes showed up. Mon amour, you can have almost any man in this world and be free to express your love in public – “

“Mycroft.” Sherlock interjects. He states quietly, maintaining eye contact with his brother, needing Mycroft to see his sincerity. “You are the only man worth having in this world. If this is the price we must pay for our love, then I will pay it happily.”

The awestruck look in Mycroft’s blue eyes almost breaks Sherlock. “My love… my love…” Mycroft manages. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Neither do I.” Sherlock replies without hesitation. “But, I will endeavor to try to deserve you.”

“And so, will I.” Mycroft says carefully, “With everything I have, for you are everything to me.”

“And that’s why it will work.” Sherlock whispers fiercely. “We were never people to do things the easy way.”

“No, we are not.” Mycroft says thoughtfully. He takes one of Sherlock’s hands and gently presses his lips to the pad of each fingertip. “Maybe, in ten years or so, I will retire. And we can leave. Or even sooner. There are several places in the world where we can be out openly.” He shrugs nonchalantly, after having read Sherlock’s thoughts on his face. “It is just a job at the end of the day.”

“You would do that for me?” It’s Sherlock’s turn to be overwhelmed. By both his brother’s words and actions.

“I would do anything for you. You know that.” Mycroft says tenderly. “But what I do unequivocally know, is that I do not care to repeat the last four weeks of my life. That is not living, lover mine; that is dying.”

“We can discuss this later.” Sherlock replies, still dumbstruck.

“Come, lover mine,” Mycroft finally stands up from the table after minutes of silence – they both needed time to process the conversation. “Let’s get a drink.” He grabs Sherlock’s hand and helps him up. “We will eat, dance and go home.”

.

.

After they had gotten their drinks, Sherlock spies an oddly familiar elderly woman in a purple coatdress. He gets his brother’s attention. “Is that… Great Aunt Magdalena?”

Mycroft sips at his whiskey. He follows his brother’s gaze. “I believe it is.”

Sherlock begins to say, “Is she the one –“

“That you accidentally set on fire as an adolescent? Yes.” Mycroft finishes with a tinge of amusement. “You know, she’s never gone to a party hosted by Mummy again after that. Claims that they were too incandescent for her.”

Sherlock snickers, but Mycroft elbows him in warning. The aforementioned great-aunt has spotted them and is making her way towards them.

“Mycroft!” Great Aunt Magdalena exclaims. “How are you? And who is that lovely lady of yours?”

“I am well, thank you. This is the lovely Ariadne. Ariadne, this is my great aunt.” Mycroft replies smoothly.  

Sherlock finds himself shaking his great aunt’s hand. And saying something mundane in return. It feels surreal. The last memory he has of his great-aunt in person was a rather impressive whoosh of flames and an indignant shriek. There are other pleasantries exchanged before their great aunt looks shrewdly at Mycroft. “You two are awfully close. Lovey-dovey, I would say. Will there be a happy announcement soon?”

“Thank you for the question, great-auntie, but we are not ready for such a commitment.” Mycroft’s diplomacy skills are being reflexively employed.

“Don’t wait too long! I am sure your mother would appreciate grandchildren at some point. Now, I must bid you two goodbye, as I need to talk to Lady Coventry about her most delectable pound cake recipe.”

Their terrifying great aunt sails off towards her next victim. Sherlock and Mycroft shoot each other looks of horror. They both down their alcoholic beverages in one go.

“Are there any other relatives we need to avoid tonight, lover mine?” Sherlock whispers.

“Not that I am aware of,” Mycroft says. “I think we got off pretty lightly with that conversation.”

“Until it goes around the grapevine and reaches Mummy’s ears.”

“I will just deny everything.” Mycroft says glumly as Sherlock liberates two generous portions of trifle served in glass bowls from a circulating waiter. “I am already in the doghouse as far as where the parents are concerned. And, it is not a crime to be seen spending an enjoyable evening with a very convincing and beautiful woman.”

Sherlock smiles at the compliment to his costume and acting skills. He puts Mycroft’s empty glass and his own on a nearby table, and hands his brother a bowl of trifle. It is one of Mycroft’s favourite desserts.

“Thank you, dear.” Mycroft grabs the spoon in the bowl and happily digs into his dessert.

“I am flattered that she thought we looked like a lovey-dovey couple bound for matrimony.” Sherlock says after a few bites of trifle.

“That is certainly one positive way to look at that conversation, lover mine.” Mycroft replies.

Sherlock leans over to whisper in Mycroft’s ear. “I definitely do not have the equipment for getting pregnant with Mummy’s grandchildren.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies.” Mycroft grins with mirth at his trifle.

.

.

“Shall we, lover mine?” Mycroft holds out his arm to Sherlock, while looking pointedly at the dance floor.

Mycroft grins like a schoolboy when Sherlock wordlessly takes his arm, and he sweeps his brother into the midst of the throng of dancers. There is some classic waltz music being played, and Mycroft, with his years of attending these events, leads with ease. Sherlock follows beautifully; they had always been able to read each other’s physical tells, even more so after they had gotten together. Mycroft spends his time actually examining his brother – he only needs a small portion of his brain to devote to leading. He has never seen his little brother look so happy – the years beforehand have not been happy ones – Sherrinford, blackmailers, assassins, Reichenbach, Moriarty, the drugs, Eurus; the list goes on and on. Even though the contacts obscured Sherlock’s eye colour, he sees and greedily takes in the joy reflected in them as he leads Sherlock through a series of complicated spins and turns. He laughs delightedly when his brother adds some of his own improvised moves casually into the formal dance style that they had started out with.

He realizes that this is the first time in their relationship that they had danced together. And, he knows that this is an experience worth repeating over and over again. And, as elegant and beautiful Sherlock looks as a woman, Mycroft misses the feel of his lover’s masculine figure in his arms. He thinks that Sherlock must be uncomfortable – the corset, the fake breasts, the wig, the heels – Sherlock slightly towers over him. Not to mention playing a role the entire evening as Mycroft’s girlfriend. His brother had to maintain the mannerisms of the typical aristocratic girl, walk with a subtle sway in his gait and be polite to a crowd of terribly dull people all evening. Fortunately, the intimacy and affection between them was not a façade – thank goodness. Mycroft knows that there was no way in hell he could replicate his brother’s feat.

At some point, their dance had devolved into the pair of them simply holding each other, swaying with the music. Sherlock whispers in Mycroft’s ear. “It’s worth it. You don’t need to think so much, lover mine.”

“I know.” Mycroft replies, deliberately sliding his hands from Sherlock’s waist to his bum. “I thank you and Anthea for crafting such a marvelous evening. It is almost worth the four weeks of separation. Ghastly great aunts aside.”

Sherlock laughs. “I thank you for going along with it.”

“Where else would I be?” Mycroft asks rhetorically. He then sighs, “I wish I could dance with you as you.”

“When we are out of the country, perhaps.” Sherlock offers. “My presence in the media is dying down.”

“I wondered about that over the last few months.” Mycroft admits, “Dr. Watson and you –“

“We did it deliberately. No more blog updates, no more getting involved in Lestrade’s press releases – no more public shenanigans, lover mine.” Sherlock explains, “We figured that after Moriarty and Eurus, we do not need or care for the attention of any more insane and psychopathic individuals. Besides, John has Rosie to think of now.”

Mycroft questions in astonishment, “No more games for you?”

“They are merely a distraction from what I actually want, darling mine.” Sherlock’s tone grows more heated as he deliberately brushes his body against Mycroft’s.

Mycroft can feel something distinctively unladylike stir in his brother’s dress. “I think I am beginning to catch a glimpse of an understanding.” He sighs; it is time to be responsible big brother. “But, I will firmly decline any offers of public sex here. It is not worth getting caught. As much as we both want it.”

Sherlock looks disappointed. Mycroft moves his brother closer so that they are actually brushing against each other. “I do believe I promised you an undressing at some point.”

“Yes, you did.” Sherlock flutters his eyelashes coquettishly.

“I didn’t expect this, when I made the offer.” Mycroft gestures to the entire ensemble.

“Problem?” Sherlock smirks.

“None at all. It is just a different form of the usual wrapping paper.” Mycroft replies.

“Can we leave now?” Sherlock asks impatiently as the last strains of the music they were dancing to fade away.

Mycroft starts leading Sherlock off the dance floor, with a bunch of other couples who clearly have the same idea in mind. But, before they actually leave the venue, he pulls Sherlock into a hidden recess and kisses his beloved for the first time in twenty-nine days, sixteen hours and forty-seven minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bái jiǔ - 白酒 - Chinese white liquor. Drunk ubiquitously for any event, even business.
> 
> Seriously, I am going to take a break from writing for the next little while.  
> It's too addicting. I keep telling myself I will write an hour, and then several hours are gone.  
> The next chapter would be the smut anyways :P
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated and thanks for all the love <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock spend the night (Part II). And the day afterwards.

** Mycroft’s House **

“Brother mine, you are exhausted.” Sherlock states with concern when they finally make it to the bedroom.

Mycroft sighs. He cannot deny it. He had been tired long before the party had even started. The energy he had gained from the adrenaline rush of being illicitly out with his lover in the public eye is waning. He could infer from his brother’s tone that Sherlock would be perfectly fine with just cuddling and sleeping tonight despite the previous foreplay that they had engaged in.

After all, they did have tomorrow.

But he wants this.   

He has been fantasizing for days about making love to his brother, and he is not going to let something as elementary as exhaustion stop him now. It had been one of the few activities that had kept him sane over the past four weeks.

Mycroft watches appreciatively as his lover glides over to their bed; his heels clicking percussively against the wooden floor. The skirts of Sherlock’s dress flutter enticingly; the stones embroidered on the silky fabric sparkle iridescently with every graceful move his brother makes. There are tastefully selected diamonds around his brother’s decadent neck and clipped onto the lobes of his ears. And of course, there are those incredibly soft kidskin evening gloves that Mycroft had been touching all evening.

At a glance, Sherlock epitomizes the sophisticated lady aristocrat. It is stunning how immaculately his brother can play a role. And how beautiful his Sherlock is, although Mycroft highly suspects that he would find his brother attractive even in a raggedy potato sack in the middle of a field of mud. He had certainly enjoyed showing off his lover to the oblivious British nobility this evening, garnering envious looks from the influential guests.

His brother has brought a bag upstairs, presumably hidden somewhere in the house by Anthea earlier in the day. From the bag, Sherlock removes a packet of wipes, presumably for makeup removal.

Mycroft makes his request, “Lover mine, could you remove the prosthetics, makeup and contacts from your face? I will do the rest. I wish to fulfill my previous promise to you, tonight.”

“Give me a few minutes then, brother dear.” Sherlock gets up from the bed and takes the bag with him, “I want to wash my face. Makeup’s nasty.” He shuts the bathroom door behind his rustling dress.

Mycroft hears his brother use the loo and turn on the sink. In the meantime, he decides to undress to save time; he divests himself of his suit jacket, waistcoat, cufflinks, sleeve garters and shoes. He unknots his tie, only realizing now that Anthea had picked one that had matched Sherlock’s dress – a black tie with a splash of sparkles. He shakes his head. It is evident that he had missed out on a lot of clues over the course of the day. Finally, he opens the top buttons of his white shirt.

Anticipating his brother’s reappearance, Mycroft sits on the bed, facing the bathroom door. He suddenly feels nervous. It really has been too long since he had been physically intimate with his brother.

Sherlock emerges.

Mycroft pounces.

He cannot bear to wait any longer. His arms wrap tightly around his brother’s corseted waist, and he kisses him passionately and desperately. They break apart to breathe and begin again. This time, they start with gentle brushes of lips, before Sherlock grows impatient and uses his tongue to lick across Mycroft’s lips, forcing them to part. Mycroft gasps when he feels the caress of his brother’s tongue against his own. This intimate dance of tongues is tender and unhurried, as if to communicate and soothe four weeks’ worth of distress. Mycroft uses his hands to stroke the silky texture of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive dress. His brother pushes him closer, and Mycroft could hear Sherlock moan when his prick comes into contact with Mycroft’s groin. They both groan loudly when their cocks accidentally brush against each other.

Mycroft pulls away at this point.

Both are breathing hard.

Sherlock saunters backwards and lowers himself onto the bed. He kicks off his heels, and sprawls casually over the blanket.  

Mycroft follows.

“The wig, first.” Mycroft states after climbing into their bed. He pulls his brother up to a sitting position. “It looks the most wrong on you.”

Sherlock laughs breathlessly, “Not the breasts, brother mine?” Amusement dances in his blue-green eyes. Nevertheless, he obliges Mycroft; Sherlock turns around and lowers his neck, offering access to the chignon.

“Blond does not suit you, brother dear.” Mycroft replies, ignoring the tease. He cannot help but observe that Sherlock looks vulnerable and a touch submissive in this new position. It takes his breath away; the trust his little brother has in him. He runs his fingers soothingly against the nape of Sherlock’s neck and bestows a kiss on a particularly sensitive spot. His brother shivers. Carefully, Mycroft pulls out the pins that holds the chignon together and watches the freed hair cascade down his brother’s back. It is a surprisingly erotic act of intimacy. He runs his hands through the entire length of the long blond wig before carefully removing it along with the stocking cap underneath. Mycroft places the accessories on the nightstand before finally plunging his hand into the soft curls of his brother’s dark hair. Sherlock makes sounds not dissimilar to a purring cat, as Mycroft massages his brother’s scalp the way he knows his brother prefers.

The jewelry comes off next, as well as the gloves. Mycroft notes that the gloves were definitely necessary; there are small scars and burns accumulated from Sherlock’s experiments and other adventures over the years that would be difficult to cover up. He takes the time to kiss a few of these scars, before reaching over to his brother’s back for the zipper of the dress.

“I am quite fond of this dress, brother mine.” Mycroft says as he slowly pulls the zip down. “Although, I can only hope that there is still some money left in my coffers.”

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, “Worth it.” He then informs seriously, “It’s all synthetic diamonds.”

“Ah.” Mycroft slips the dress off his lover’s shoulders. “That might knock a few zeroes off.” He adds teasingly, “You are turning into a kept man, mon amour.” Not that Mycroft minded that; it is not like he has better things to splurge his money on. He leans over to kiss his brother’s newly exposed left shoulder, on the acromion.

Mycroft takes the time to examine the effects that the black lacy corset and the matching bra containing the silicone prosthetics had on his brother’s figure. Taking both his hands, he runs them both up from his brother’s exposed hips to beneath his bra, cupping and squeezing the fake breasts with his palms and fingers. It is an alien sensation. Mycroft definitely prefers Sherlock’s distinctly masculine and well-defined chest. He unfastens the bra and removes the prosthetics, setting them aside. Sherlock smiles indulgently throughout Mycroft’s actions.

Next, he caresses the skin bordering the edges of his brother’s corset. He finds that he rather enjoys the look of it on his brother, now that the fake bust is gone. The tantalizing contrast of black lace and alabaster skin; the tapered waist emphasizing his brother’s already generous bottom. His brother might even like the breath play potential it offered. As tempted as Mycroft is to leave it on, he knows that Sherlock has been wearing the restrictive garment for hours. There would be other opportunities in the future. He tugs at the laces and feels his brother sag against him in relief. Mycroft knows that has made the right choice. Instead, he pets and rubs the reddened and sensitized skin that had been constricted by the rigid embrace of the corset, delighting in the sighs of pleasure Sherlock makes. He then devotes time to observing, tracing and worshiping the new scar his lover acquired during his absence.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Sherlock offers.

“I am glad.” Mycroft bends down to give grateful kisses to the newly scarred skin. “I was terrified when Anthea called me in the middle of the night to inform me that you had been stabbed and taken to the hospital. You have no idea how much I wanted to drop everything and fly back to London, brother mine. I might have impulsively done so if Narita had offered any flights to Heathrow before six in the morning. That was the first time that I have not haunted your hospital bed.” He sighs despairingly, “You know, it is worse now, as your lover. I felt utterly useless.”

“I know.” Sherlock says contritely. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be, little brother.” Mycroft pulls his brother into his arms to kiss his lips. He presses his forehand affectionately against Sherlock’s. “What matters is that you are here now, in one piece.”

Mycroft then realizes something. There is no body hair on his brother’s torso, whatsoever. He muses that being slow on the uptake seems to be the running theme for today.

“You shaved.” He states.

“More like waxed. Brazilian.” Sherlock amends, “I figured I might as well be thorough.”

Mycroft visibly flinches. He cannot imagine undergoing that with all his body hair. His fingers brush in wonder at one of Sherlock’s hairless axillae.

Sherlock grins, easily deducing Mycroft’s thoughts. “I would never ask you to do it, brother mine. I love your fur.”

“Thank god.” Mycroft says with relief. He then says teasingly while playfully attempting to pull the rest of Sherlock’s dress off, “I wonder what you have down there, little brother.”

“Why don’t you have a look?” Sherlock says flirtatiously. He smirks. “There is nothing little about it, big brother.”

Mycroft groans, “Believe me, I know.” With Sherlock’s help, he slips off the rest of the dress, revealing a bulge straining against lacy panties that matched the corset. “At least you wore something under there, lover mine.”

“I thought it might have been a little too risqué to go commando with all those lords and ladies prancing about.” Sherlock says with a touch of humour.

Mycroft snorts. “Says the one who went to Buckingham Palace in the sheet.”

“Well, one does eventually have to grow up.” Sherlock reflects. “Although, it is less fun in some ways.”

“As long as sex no longer alarms you in your older and wiser age, brother mine.” Mycroft replies mischievously. He intentionally palms his brother’s erection, causing Sherlock to hiss and lean further into his touch. Eventually, he allows his fingers slip through the sheer material of his brother’s panties, behind the hairless cock and balls and strokes the perineum. He slides his fingers further and sees his brother shudder violently as he brushes against the sensitive opening of his brother’s hole.

“I haven’t had anything up there in so long. My virginity may have grown back.” Sherlock quips.

Mycroft laughs, “I don’t think it works that way, lover mine.” He then considers some practicalities while still teasing the skin at the periphery of Sherlock’s orifice, “I don’t think I am going to last long enough to prepare you and penetrate you properly. How about we frot instead? I will fuck you till you scream tomorrow, little brother. I promise.”

Sherlock takes matters into his own hands, or rather mouth for the first time this evening. He impishly swoops down to nuzzle and mouth at Mycroft’s trouser-covered erection. Mycroft groans as he feels his cock grow harder under Sherlock’s attentions. He hears his brother undoing the zipper of his trousers. Figuring that it was time to correct the clothing imbalance between them, Mycroft quickly sheds his shirt and aids Sherlock in removing his pants and trousers.

An undignified noise leaves his throat when his brother abruptly takes the glans of his cock into his delectable mouth. Sherlock is an absolute tease; licking lightly, but not applying any meaningful pressure. Before Mycroft is about to issue a complaint, he feels his brother take him deeper and apply a more than acceptable amount of suction. It feels absolutely fantastic; Mycroft has not felt better in a month. Sherlock does that swallowing trick that has Mycroft seeing stars. All too soon, he senses the familiar surge of impending orgasm. He fights it desperately, but nevertheless, he spills all too soon down into his brother’s throat.

Absolutely dazed, Mycroft looks over at his brother moments later. Sherlock’s torso is already dripping with his own come; the flimsy black lace panties have been pulled down to his knees at some point. Even in Mycroft’s dopamine-addled mind, it is not difficult to deduce what had happened. It is a hot visual; his brother stroking himself off while sucking him to completion. Mycroft reflects that it was a shame that he had not been cognizant of the act and its conclusion as it happened.

“I am sorry, brother mine, I really missed the taste of you.” There is not an iota of repentance in Sherlock’s countenance.

“You are such a brat.” Mycroft lets out a fake long-suffering sigh. “I’d forgotten.”

Sherlock crawls over and deliberately smears his come-drenched body over Mycroft’s hairy but dry one.

“You like me bratty.” Sherlock smirks all too knowingly, before pressing his lips against his brother’s. “Besides, you can fuck me and frot me tomorrow, if that is what you desire, lover mine.”

They lie there, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of being together, before Mycroft decides that a shower may be prudent before a chisel is actually required.

.

.

_Are you going to work today? – SH_

_Nah! Taking the day off. Got a touch of the cold, and I am writing up some clinical papers based on our surgical data from Cambridge. – ZW_

_Hope you feel better soon! Can you cover for me? I am spending the day with my lover. – SH_

_Alright, if John calls, I will say that we are having a hot date together. And that you are indecent and unavailable. That should put him off. – ZW_

_Thank you! I told him I was spending the day at your flat, anyways. – SH_

_Sounds good! By the way, John and Mira want to go on another double date – probably on Friday. You in? – ZW_

_For the sake of appearances, I think we need to go. – SH_

_That would be wise. – ZW_

_Any idea what they are planning? – SH_

_Last I heard… Maybe laser tag? An escape room? I have no bloody clue. – ZW_

“Texting another man while you are in bed with me, lover mine?”

Sherlock drops his phone in surprise as his brother prowls towards him, evidently awake. There is a predatory gleam in Mycroft’s eyes that bodes well for an excellent morning. Sherlock allows himself to get pinned down under his lover’s comfortable weight. He gets kissed in return.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock manages as his brother begins to paint feathery light kisses over his face.

“Shh… Brother mine.” Mycroft whispers near Sherlock’s ear. “Let me do this.”

Sherlock squirms and moans when his brother nibbles and sucks at a particularly sensitive spot near his ear and mastoid process. He feels hands caress his chest and fingers lightly tease and pinch at his stiffening nipples. A kiss is pressed on another spot near his external jugular. He allows himself to be lost in the sensation that is his brother thoroughly relearning and worshipping his body with the skillful application of hands, lips, tongue and a hint of teeth; his lover transmitting via touch his affections, love, devotion and more that mere speech cannot express. A particularly hard nibble causes Sherlock to moan and jerk up from the bed; he knows that Mycroft is staking his claim on Sherlock’s flesh in the form of tangible and colourful evidence.

“More!” Sherlock demands.

His brother happily obliges and picks another spot, causing Sherlock to arch and cry out.

Soon, Mycroft flips Sherlock over, and plays around with his bum – pulling his cheeks apart and closed. He yelps when his brother suddenly licks a stripe across his hole. Delirium soon sets in when Mycroft actually gets down to it; he feels his lover’s tongue slowly working him open and fingers caressing and teasing his perineum and scrotal sac. Sherlock starts rutting against the bedsheets – needing more, but he feels his brother grip his hips forcefully with his hands, stilling their motion. It is an admonishment – _you will take what I give you, and no more_. He whines when his brother’s tongue retreats from his anus, but the emptiness is soon replaced by a lubricated finger. Mycroft prepares him slowly – as if this is the first time they are having anal sex. It is a torturously slow process for Sherlock’s patience; he almost sobs with relief when Mycroft eventually scissors him with three fingers – knowing that he would soon get what he had been desperately craving for weeks.

He wants to beg.

He does. “Please, Mycroft…”

“Soon.” Mycroft leans over to kiss the nape of his neck, while removing his fingers from Sherlock’s sphincter.

And finally, finally – he feels his brother’s lubricated cock drag against his sensitized skin, before the thick cockhead breaches him. Mycroft’s hands are firmly holding his hips again, controlling the speed of penetration. There is discomfort – his brother senses it at once and ceases his movements, allowing Sherlock to readapt to the exquisite stretch.

But it goes away quickly.

“More.” He insists.

Mycroft complies. Sherlock feels the friction of his brother’s cock sliding inch by delicious inch into him. His brother is soon completely in him. Sherlock rolls his own hips, and Mycroft takes it as a sign to move. The ecstasy that Sherlock feels at their union is immense; they are as close as they could physically be.

“God, I’ve missed this, brother mine.” Sherlock breathes out as Mycroft sets a steady pace.

“As did I, little brother.” His brother replies and nuzzles his cheek against Sherlock’s scapula. Mycroft then kisses and mouths at his trapezius near the neck.

The build to climax is slow, but steady – comfortable. Mycroft intuitively seems to know when Sherlock is about to reach the limit and switches up the angle and hastens his thrusts. Sherlock feels his brother’s hand passively encircle his weeping prick, giving Sherlock more friction with every movement they make. The tension soon crests within him, Mycroft’s fingers strokes him just right and he comes, roaring his brother’s name to the heavens – feeling a tsunami’s worth of neurotransmitters flood the synapses in his brain with indescribable rapture. Mycroft follows a minute after him, spilling into him and collapses on top of him.

 _It doesn’t get better than this._ It is the only coherent thought that Sherlock could piece together in the afterglow, as he feels Mycroft’s cock slip out of his sphincter.

Minutes pass. Only the sounds of their breaths mar the silence.

“Was that what you wanted, little brother?” Mycroft asks, somewhat cautiously.

Sherlock simply rubs his cheek against Mycroft’s naked chest. He feels his brother’s hand reach up to caress his cheek. Sherlock leans into the touch.

“I will take that as a ‘yes’ as I seemed to have fucked you speechless.” Mycroft says; there is a mixture of jest, pride and seriousness in his tone.

Sherlock finds his words, “Fantasies pale in comparison to the real thing, lover mine.”

“I find that to be true, as well.” Mycroft replies. He suggests moments later, “Shall we clean up and go find some sustenance?”

.

.

** Korean Restaurant **

Mycroft has developed a healthy appreciation for South Korean cuisine over the last few months. Sherlock and he sit at a cramped, but cozy booth, separated by a well-worn wooden table and a centrally embedded grill. His little brother is almost unrecognizable, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a dark blue turtleneck. He had also taken some hair product and made a side-part with his hair. Mycroft is quite touched; he knows how fastidious Sherlock can be about his appearance. He greatly appreciates the lengths Sherlock is willing to take so that the pair of them could spend some potentially discreet non-brotherly time outside – the crossdressing stunt yesterday having been the most spectacular example to date.

He watches as Sherlock gracefully reaches over to fetch two napkins from the dispenser against the wall; one of which he places on Mycroft’s side of the table, and the other on his own. A wooden box is opened, and Sherlock selects two steel spoons and two pairs of flat metal chopsticks. He distributes the utensils between their napkins. Mycroft inclines his head to acknowledge his thanks.

Their server arrives; she turns on the gas-fueled grill, places two steaming cups of barley tea and a varied set of side dishes on the table. Mycroft reaches for the tea, while his brother’s chopsticks predictably go for the strips of fishcake. His brother’s eyes dance happily as the fishcake slips between his lips.

“Shall we get something to drink?” Mycroft inquires.

“You are drinking tea, lover mine.” Sherlock says smartly.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He nudges Sherlock’s foot with his own in annoyance. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Sherlock observes. “It is barely noon.” He kicks Mycroft back under the table.

“It is late afternoon in Beijing.” Mycroft retorts, using his leg to ensnare his brother’s.

“Are you not meant to be getting over your jetlag –“

Sherlock abruptly stops talking when Mycroft begins rubbing at his shin with his sock-clad foot. Smiling, Mycroft flags one of the servers down and inquires about his soju.

“And they call me a menace.” Sherlock complains.

Mycroft grins, “Takes one to know one, dear.” He proceeds to draw comforting circles on his brother’s leg.

Sherlock sighs, but with contentment, as he reaches for some kimchi.

The alcohol soon arrives, with two shot glasses. Mycroft deftly opens the bottle and fills both. He pushes one over to his brother.

“Indulge me.” Mycroft requests. He then says more tenderly. “This is the beginning of our eighth month together.”

Sherlock is touched; his eyes shimmer. “So, it is.”

Mycroft watches his brother examine the clear liquid in the glass intently.

Sherlock sniffs at it delicately. “Shall we do it as how the Koreans do it?”

“If you wish it.” Mycroft picks up his glass with both hands. “Maybe just the first one.”  He is not interested in getting drunk.

Sherlock nods, and does the same. “건배!” [Geonbae!]

They both turn their heads away from each other and down the shot. It burns comfortably down Mycroft’s throat. He pours another glass for Sherlock and his brother takes the bottle and does the same for him.

Another server approaches with a metal cart. He efficiently sets the food on the table; an order of marinated kalbi, pork belly strips, bibimbap (rice, vegetables and marinated beef (bulgogi) topped with a fried egg) in a stone bowl and all the ingredients to make ssam (wraps). Sherlock promptly grabs the tongs to throw some of the meat on the grill, while Mycroft reaches for the bibimbap. He uses a spoon to break the egg yolk and adds some of the spicy gochujang (hot pepper) sauce into the bowl. He then proceeds to mix everything and scoops a serving into a separate bowl for his brother; he doesn’t forget to scrape off some of the crispy bottom bits of rice that Sherlock enjoys.

The enticing smells of a Korean restaurant never fail to lull Mycroft into a sense of nostalgia. He would never forget the first time Sherlock and he had gone to one together. It had been when he had thought what they had now was impossible.

“Lover mine, you are being nostalgic!” Sherlock accuses, while handing him the tongs. “It isn’t even the same restaurant.”

Mycroft shrugs, taking over the grilling. “You know, it is the aromas that get to me, mon amour.”

Sherlock grabs his portion of bibimbap and happily digs into it. Mycroft does love to see his little brother eat; he notes that Sherlock has lost a few – five pounds to be exact – since he had left. He has noticed months ago that Sherlock enjoys eating in his presence. So, Mycroft makes sure that there is eating involved whenever they spend time together. He picks up some of the kalbi, noting that they were done. He takes half the pieces and drops them into Sherlock’s bibimbap bowl and takes the others for himself. Mycroft bites into the short rib, savouring the flavour and letting the meat melt in his mouth. Sherlock starts cutting up the pork belly into a separate plate with a pair of scissors, in preparation for making ssam.

His brother says; his voice barely audible in the ambient noises of the relatively busy restaurant. “I didn’t even know us was a possibility that day.”

“I know.” Mycroft picks up his second soju shot. “I did not know either that day.”

Sherlock picks up his as well, in both hands. They tilt their heads away from each other and toss the second shot back. It goes deliciously with the flavour of the kalbi that Mycroft just had.

Mycroft continues. “I knew what I felt about you then. And I was quite prepared to carry it to the grave – so to speak.”

“Sherrinford.” Sherlock says, in awe.

Mycroft pours the third shot into Sherlock’s glass. Sherlock does the same for him. It has become an oddly comforting ritual.

“Yes.” Mycroft replies. He had been ready to go then. As a penance for all his sins, despite not believing in a higher power. And for his brother’s happiness. But he is beyond glad things ended this way. “And before that.”

“When did it start?” Sherlock starts making a ssam. A piece of pork belly, kimchi, onions and a dash of ssamjang (spicy soy bean paste) gets added to a sheet of lettuce.

“I cannot pinpoint the day exactly, but I knew for sure when you left to dismantle Moriarty’s network.” Mycroft says honestly.

“Mycroft…” His little brother is speechless.

Instead Sherlock passes his ssam to him, which Mycroft takes and eats instead. He can see the myriad of thoughts his brother entertains in his mind through barely perceptible facial expression changes.

Mycroft continues eating. He knows that none of Sherlock’s thoughts are pleasant. He sees guilt, despair, pain, angst amongst others in his brother’s countenance. But this was something that Sherlock had to work out for himself.

“Those were not easy years.” Sherlock emerges. He makes another ssam wrap.

“No, lover mine, they were not.” Mycroft replies.

Sherlock looks incredibly guilty, “I am sorry. For everything. I should have known that –“

Mycroft reaches over to put his hand on his brother’s knee. “I forgave you a long time ago, my love. It is all water under the bridge, as I said at the beginning. And I have my own regrets and apologies.”

He feels Sherlock’s hand grip his under the table. Just this simple gesture feels incredibly illicit.

“Then I forgive you for whatever you think you need to be forgiven for, lover mine.” Sherlock smiles slightly.

“Thank you.” Mycroft nods his head; realizing that this absolution from his brother was something he had needed to hear.

They both pick up the third shot, tilt their heads to the right, and finish it.

Mycroft knows there is one shot left in the bottle. A soju bottle typically contains seven shots. He pours half a shot into his brother’s glass, and Sherlock dumps the rest into his.

“You know,” Sherlock starts again, “That day. I felt like I walked into a parallel universe. And I did not know what I was more terrified of – the flirting, or that you would put an end to the flirting.”

Mycroft laughs, as he puts the finishing touches to a ssam. “I don’t think I could have put a stop to it. Once I realized that there was a possibility that you could feel the same way – I went all in.”

“Someone could have mugged me when I walked home that night. And I wouldn’t have cared.” Sherlock remembers as he eats the last piece of short rib. “I don’t even remember how I managed to go back to Baker Street.”

Mycroft winks, “Too much?”

“You knew how inexperienced I was in those matters.” Sherlock says, “And don’t you dare mention any of those bloody women. It’s not the same when it is real.”

“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now, lover mine.” Mycroft whispers.

Sherlock picks up the last half-shot. Mycroft follows suit. They turn their heads away.

And drink.

.

.

** Park near Mycroft’s House **

“So, to whom were you texting to this morning, lover mine?” Mycroft asks as they walk.

They are in a park, minutes away from Mycroft’s house. A precisely calculated distance separates them; they are as close as they can be within socially acceptable parameters. But, it is still too far for Mycroft’s liking. He is starting to feel tipsy, despite soju only being twenty-four percent alcohol by volume; he hypothesizes that the other trace chemicals in the drink such as the formaldehyde were interfering with his liver’s ability to detoxify the alcohol.

“If you cannot figure that out, darling, then you really are slipping.” Sherlock turns and heads for what appears to be a deserted children’s playground.

“Your surgeon.” Mycroft says; he cannot keep the note of jealousy out of his voice.

“Who I told explicitly that I was seeing you today.” Sherlock says firmly, “So, if John becomes curious about my activities over the past day or so, I have an alibi.”

“Do I need to have a little chat with him?” Mycroft reminisces about a previous warehouse encounter with another one of Sherlock’s doctors.

Sherlock lets out a sigh, “Marshall is quite a perceptive man. I am afraid if he sees you as you are now, you would give the game away, lover mine.”

Mycroft watches with amusement as Sherlock reaches for what is termed the ‘monkey bars’. His brother grabs one, a grotesque shade of orange, and swings himself across them with the ease of an aerialist to the connected platform, elevated approximately two metres above the ground. It turns Mycroft’s amusement turns into arousal, as he admires the musculature of his brother’s exposed forearms and the subtle ripples of his biceps and deltoids hidden away under his turtleneck as they contract and relax throughout Sherlock’s exertions. The tantalizing glimpses of Sherlock’s pale back and abdomen as the fabric of his turtleneck rides up and down during this feat do nothing to help matters.

“Not trying to seduce you.” Sherlock notices as he looks down at Mycroft, perched on his roost above.

“It is not my fault that you are so enticing.” Mycroft crosses his arms.

Sherlock’s phone starts ringing.

Mycroft sighs, as his brother retrieves his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock greets.

Mycroft feels his heart sink. Another one of his brother’s goldfish, trying to steal his lover away. It is rare that Sherlock and he got to spend an entire weekday together.

Sherlock listens intently and gives his replies.

“Sounds like a seven.”

“The goldfish costs how much?”

“Two-hundred thousand pounds?”

The conversation continues. Mycroft can tell from the restless fidgeting of his brother that this is an intriguing case. There are two dead bodies involved in addition to the missing exotic fish. Just as he is mentally preparing himself for Sherlock to leave him, he hears his brother say.

“I will come by tomorrow! Tell Anderson to take some decent shots for once before ruining anything.”

“I am busy today. Also, slightly inebriated, Gordon!”

“No, not those drugs. I went for drinks!”

“My significant other.”

“He has the day off.”

“Do you not have a crime scene to secure and witnesses to interview?”

“Ha! Very droll, Lestrade.”

“I will see you tomorrow.”

Sherlock finally hangs up.

Mycroft looks at him in amazement. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I am sure.” Sherlock jumps down from the platform and stumbles on the landing in the sand.

Mycroft reflexively reaches over to steady his brother.

Sherlock’s voice is thick with promise. “Lover mine.”

Their eyes catch.

Mycroft is lost within the blue-green iridescence of his most beloved’s irises. The everchanging colours abruptly shift and belie an unfathomable depth of sentiment that suddenly makes it difficult for him to draw breath.

He finally snaps under the tension.

“I think we better go home.” Mycroft gasps out. “Now.”

“That would be wise.” Sherlock sounds equally shattered.

They run home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will leave the rest of their day to your imaginations. I can imagine that they spent the rest of the day practicing the art of mutual self-destruction. This chapter is already 5k+ words long! 
> 
> Geonbae - Korean equivalent of 'Cheers!'. 
> 
> There are apparently some rules involved with drinking soju in South Korea. This is what I understand after doing some research. I would imagine that Mycroft would have an extensive knowledge of different customs considering the work he does!
> 
> 1) You cannot serve yourself.  
> 2) Someone more senior (either in age/rank) must serve you.  
> 3) The glass must be held with both hands. (it is a sign of respect)  
> 4) The bottle should be held with two hands during pouring, or one hand on the elbow of the other during pouring. (again a respect thing)  
> 5) It's considered respectful to turn your head away to drink as showing teeth is considered rude.  
> 6) The first shot should be downed in one go. It's acceptable to sip the ones after. (I know in the story, they took them all like shots.) 
> 
> I like writing about food. Especially food I want to eat. 
> 
> Mm... When I initially conceived this story, I was going to end it at Chapter 8. Well, now we are going to explore some other interesting scenes. I think there may be two chapters before Mummy's party but we shall see. 
> 
> Hope the smut turned out okay. Still a newbie at writing explicit sex. I am used to writing plot driven stuff with references to sexual acts!
> 
> Again, thanks for all your support :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock shows off his new 'boyfriend' and has a tryst with his actual one.

** St Bartholomew's Hospital – Cafeteria **

“Sorry I ran late, Sherlock.” Marshall runs his hand through his jet-black hair, looking harried. “That –“

Sherlock waves away Marshall’s apologies, “There was no way you can account for someone throwing up on you. Especially the medical student.”

“Well, of course you know.” Marshall grins slightly as he sits down at the cafeteria table. “Good thing the surgery was done, and I was still wearing my scrubs. Could just bin them into the biohazards. God, what a day!”

_With Marshall. At St. Bart’s. – SH_

Sherlock watches as his fake boyfriend looks at the food he had ordered with approval; there is a basket of fish and chips, the hospital daily special of shepherd’s pie, a box of unagi sushi and a piece of carrot cake. These are things he had deduced that the surgeon would like.

_I know you are on a case, lover mine, but please do eat something. – MH_

“Fuck, I am starving.” Marshall grabs one of the plastic forks, drops some white vinegar and tartar sauce on the fish and digs in. “Thank you for this, Sherlock. Grease, just what I need!”

“De nada.” Sherlock replies as he helps himself to the sushi, using the cheap disposable chopsticks. He suppresses the urge to text something along the lines of ‘yes, mother’.

_Having some unagi sushi. – SH_

_Just letting you know that I am presenting my ‘boyfriend’ to_ Scotland _Yard’s finest later this evening. – SH_

They eat for a bit before Marshall asks cautiously, “You sure I will be allowed in?”

Sherlock shrugs casually, “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I am sure they are all dying to see who my significant other is.”

_Just as long as you know who you actually belong to, brother mine. – MH_

“Ah, right – you did mention it to me. You told the detective inspector you work with – Lestrade!” Marshall thinks as he takes a generous spoonful of shepherd’s pie. “So, tell me about the case then.”

_I was not aware that I was an object to be owned. – SH_

Sherlock finds himself thinking about the hickeys that Mycroft had left on his body. Involuntarily, his fingers reach out to brush against his shirt where a bruise next to his sternum is fading. He shakes his head and focuses on giving Marshall a summary. “Two days ago, one Lady Alistair woke up and found two deceased bodies in her manor. And a missing fish. Only one of the bodies have been identified – the daughter of the butler, but the other – a male – has not. According to Lestrade, there wasn’t any identifying marks or papers on the man – and no one has reported anyone with his characteristics missing.”

_Would you deny that you are the object of my desires? – MH_

_My affections? My love? – MH_

Sherlock swallows at his brother’s text.

“If I were to jump to conclusions, I would think this a love affair gone wrong.” Marshall fills the lull in conversation while working on the carrot cake. “Ah, hospital grade dessert.” He sighs deeply, but the cake disappears all the same.

“But the fish.” Sherlock continues, “Is a new acquisition by Lady Alistair. She fancies herself as an avid aquarist. She describes it as a magnificent specimen of its species – _Scleropages formosus_ – or the Asian arowana. Or colloquially known as the dragon fish –“

“Oh –龙鱼 [lóng yú] – my mum has one swimming at her place. For good luck - you know; 风水 [fēng shuǐ] and all that jazz. High maintenance. And I don’t mean just looking after it. Throws tantrums and everything. Quite a personality and sight.” Marshall says, “But, please continue.”

_No, brother mine. – SH_

“She probably has a silver arowana.” Sherlock deduces, “Those you can buy on the street for a handful of pounds.” He says dismissively, “The one I am talking about goes for two hundred grand – fully grown.”

_You know, it goes both ways. – MH_

_Remember that. – MH_

_I suppose I won’t be seeing you in our bed tonight? – MH_

Marshall whistles, “That’s a lot.” He starts cleaning up.

_Maybe. We shall see. – SH_

_I love you. – SH_

Sherlock stands up as Marshall goes and dumps the trash in the rubbish.

_I love you too. x – MH_

“Guess it’s time.” Sherlock looks up from his phone.

Marshall offers his hand. Sherlock hesitates for a few seconds but takes it.

They head for the mortuary.

.

.

Marshall’s large hand feels odd in Sherlock’s grasp. Like Mycroft, Marshall keeps his nails perfectly manicured, but there is a roughness to the surgeon’s hands that is missing from his brother’s elegant ones. It’s not unpleasant, but it just doesn’t feel quite right. No one they encounter bats an eye to the gesture, aside from the usual ‘oh, they are gay’ glance as they make their way to the mortuary. Which, in itself, is a novel experience. He wonders if Mycroft and he would ever have that mundane experience.

He pushes through the doors and walks in, pulling Marshall along with him. Only Molly is present, examining a fresh corpse lying on an autopsy table. She casts a brief glance at them and switches the voice recorder off. Her eyes dart to where Sherlock and Marshall’s hands were joined, and they widen. Marshall seems to be sizing her up as well; the situation is surreal, Sherlock feels like a potential mate that two rivals are about to fight over, like something out of those National Geographic documentaries that John likes to watch after a long day. With only the added irony that neither of them will ever have a claim to him.

The surgeon breaks the stalemate. He drapes his arm possessively around Sherlock’s waist, and leads him closer to Molly. The actions stir Molly out of her trance. She pulls off and disposes the purple nitrile gloves in the nearby yellow bin.

“Dr. Molly Hooper.” She greets with a professional air; her spine straightens. “Forensics and Clinical Pathology consultant.”

“Dr. Marshall Hayes.” Marshall reaches for a handshake. “Head and Neck Surgery consultant.”

They shake hands. It is rigid.

Molly’s eyes flicker wildly between him and Marshall. She asks cautiously, “You two – are together?”

“Yes.” Marshall says confidently. He explains further. “Not long, but long enough that Sherlock feels comfortable to bring me along.”

Before the stilted conversation could limp further along, the doors to the mortuary open again, revealing Lestrade and Donovan. Like Molly, their focus of attention was directed at the surgeon. Their reactions are diametrically opposite. Donovan looks disgusted, while Lestrade actually beams.

“Ah, so you are the significant other that Sherlock talked about.” Lestrade strides over to Marshall, hand outstretched. “He turned down my crime scene to spend time with you.”

“It was a good Monday!” Marshall exclaims, while shaking Lestrade’s hand heartily. “I am Marshall.”

“Greg.” Lestrade introduces himself, “And this is Sally.”

“Can I see the bodies now?” Sherlock finally interrupts the proceedings. “There is a crime to solve.”

Molly puts on a new pair of gloves and proceeds to take out the two bodies of interest. Sherlock, no longer interested in the little dramas going on around him, tugs Marshall closer to the bodies. The surgeon whispers in his ear. “Wow, people either really love you or hate you. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone in between yet.”

Sherlock shrugs as he puts on his own gloves.

.

.

“That is actually amazing.” Marshall says when they’ve finally left St. Bart’s. “So, the missing fish is actually with the gardener’s wife. And you figured that out just by looking at those photographs and the two bodies in the mortuary.”

“We won’t actually know if my deductions are correct until Lestrade’s people arrest the gardener and his wife tomorrow and find the fish.” Sherlock admits.

“Greg seemed pretty sure after you told him.” Marshall says. He then looks at his phone. “Shite, it’s getting late, and I have to work tomorrow. You going to come over?”

“No, I –“

Marshall holds up his hand. “I understand. I didn’t expect you to. If John or anyone asks, I will say that I was with you all night.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock looks gratefully at Marshall before hailing a cab.

.

.

** Mycroft’s House **

It wasn’t until two in the morning when Sherlock finally crawled into bed. Before doing so, he had taken a quick shower downstairs in order to avoid waking up his brother – who is asleep. Just as he was about to drift off, he feels Mycroft roll over towards him.

“Mm… This is a pleasant surprise.” Mycroft murmurs sleepily. “It is not often I get to see you three days in a row, lover mine.”

“I suppose having Marshall around has its benefits.” Sherlock replies, as Mycroft’s arms reach over to wrap around his nude body.

“You really need to stop mentioning other men in our bed, dear.” Mycroft says with teasing admonishment. “It is quite off-putting.” He leans forward to kiss Sherlock.

“I thought we could talk about anything in our bed?” Sherlock is serious. “No secrets in bed – was that not our agreed upon policy, brother mine?”

“Mm…” Mycroft rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. He mumbles. “Can we do that after the sex?”

“Is this not a little presumptuous of you?” Sherlock asks as Mycroft sheds his pyjama bottoms and top.

Mycroft ignores the question and reaches for his brother’s clearly interested cock. There is already a bead of precum forming at the slit. He gives a few calculated strokes, rendering his brother incoherent.

“I don’t see you saying no, brother mine.” Mycroft teases. He places his hands adjacent to Sherlock’s shoulders, so that his body covered his brother’s. He then says gently. “But you know, I would stop if you truly do not want it.”

“I know.” Sherlock manages. “Should I rub against you?”

Mycroft lowers his body down so that Sherlock could rut against his groin. The delicious contact of skin and prick cause them both to moan. Arms reach around to embrace Mycroft, pulling him down so their chests lay flush against each other. They kiss, nuzzle and gradually accelerate their movements, seeking more friction. Eventually, Mycroft reaches over for the lubricant he had stashed earlier and pours some in his hand. Elevating himself slightly, he encircles both their cocks in his hand, and strokes at a leisurely pace.

“Faster.” Sherlock demands breathlessly.

Mycroft smirks, leveling his brother a look that says _where are your manners?_ Ignoring his own needs for more, he continues the tortuously slow pace.

His brother actually glares at him; the effect is rather diminished considering how ragged Sherlock’s breaths were getting, and how wrecked he looks. It is a sight that Mycroft saves in his mind for future perusal.

Just as Mycroft is about to give in, Sherlock actually capitulates. “Please, My…”

Mycroft bends down to give his brother an affectionate kiss, before giving them what they both wanted. In a few deft strokes, he hears Sherlock gasp, and feels a small spurt of come hit his abdomen, which brings about his own climax with a grunt. Angling his own cock, he sprays his release over his brother’s pectorals. He falls on top of Sherlock, panting.

“I don’t want to take another shower.” Sherlock complains moments later.

“I will clean you off.” Mycroft promises. “In a moment.”

“Mm…” Sherlock makes a contented noise, before observing, “We haven’t had this much sex in a while.”

Mycroft laughs. “You were insatiable at the beginning, little brother. But, understandable. You just discovered how good sex can be. I was worried about being able to keep up.” He reaches over to rub his come deeper into Sherlock’s skin.

“I was worried about my inexperience.” Sherlock admits. “Boring you.”

“You could never bore me, lover mine.” Mycroft says fondly, “I enjoyed teaching you. And now, I love exploring our sexuality together.”

“And you did keep up.” Sherlock remembers. He jibes. “Not bad for an old man.”

Sherlock yelps as Mycroft smacks him on the shoulder. Mycroft leans over to kiss and nibble at the abused spot.

“Only middle-aged, dear.” Mycroft says as he gets off the bed to fetch a wet cloth to wipe them off.

The cloth procured, Mycroft gently wipes the mess off his brother, and the little amount that had gotten onto himself. He throws the cloth onto the nightstand and cuddles up with his brother.

“So, speaking of your surgeon – I would like to meet him before we take him to Mummy’s next week.” Mycroft broaches a cautious subject – knowing that Sherlock thought it was a bad idea.

Sherlock thinks. “Maybe on Sunday? Could get Marshall to come visit John and I – you could conveniently show up with takeout for all of us.”

“It has been awhile since I paid a brotherly visit to Baker Street.” Mycroft says thoughtfully, “Even minus the month I have been away.”

“A good time to show your fraternal concern, lover mine.” Sherlock replies.

“Done. We will have dinner on Sunday.” Mycroft agrees. He changes the topic. “Did you find Lady Alistair’s goldfish yet?”

Sherlock proceeds to give his brother a detailed narrative of the case.

.

.

** 221B Baker Street **

“I feel like you are never here anymore.” John says as he brings Sherlock a cup of tea. “I guess things with Marshall are serious?”

“How about Mira and you?” Sherlock deflects. He doesn’t really need to ask; he could deduce from John’s posture and the state of his clothes that he’s gone on two other dates with her since the day Sherlock met Marshall and has not gone past what was called ‘third base’.

John sits down at his chair.  He sighs deeply. “We haven’t even decided if we are going to be exclusive yet. Not everyone is lucky to hit it off on the first date, you know.”

Sherlock wasn’t even sure what event was defined as the ‘first date’ for Mycroft and him.

_Lover mine, what occasion do you consider as our first date? – SH_

“Do you like her?” Sherlock asks curiously.

John lets out another sigh. “She’s beautiful, brilliant and kind… And, I can’t find a single fault with her. But I am not sure. And she seems hesitant.”

_Personally, I would pick the day I asked you to reevaluate our relationship. – MH_

_But, an argument could be made for the two other dinners after Sherrinford, brother mine. – MH_

“Somehow, I think she is hesitant because you are hesitant, John. You do, after all, have a lot of baggage.” Sherlock observes, “She really liked you on the first date.”

_That would be the more romantic option. – SH_

_Although that would mean I put out on the second date! – SH_

“Did you really think so?” John asks. “I am sure you are right.” He groans, “The world has gone crazy. I am asking you of all people for dating advice!”

_I certainly don’t think of you any less for doing so. I did so as well, mon amour. – MH_

“There’s certainly worse places to get your advice.” Sherlock muses.

_None of us were ever ones for social convention. – MH_

“That reminds me. Did Marshall talk to you about the double date on Friday?” John asks.

“He may have mentioned it via text.” Sherlock replies.

_True, brother mine. – SH_

“Mira really likes what they call Escape Rooms.” John begins to explain, “You know, those rooms where they lock you up for about an hour and you have to figure your way out of them?”

“You do realize that I am a genius, right – John?” Sherlock is amused, “We will be out in no time!”

“Well, get this, Mira got us a reservation at a Harry Potter themed one that people are waiting months to try out. It’s got really good reviews.” John explains further, with a growing grin on his face.

“Harry Potter?” Sherlock scratches his head.

_Do you know anything about Harry Potter? – SH_

“We watched the first few movies together some time ago!” John exclaims.

_Why, brother mine? It involves wizards, witches, spells and an antagonist without a nose. – MH_

“I don’t remember any of it.” Sherlock says bemusedly.

_Apparently, we are going to what John calls a ‘Harry Potter themed Escape Room’ on Friday evening. – SH_

_Why do I have a feeling that you have substantial knowledge about this topic? – SH_

“Oh, Sherlock… we will just watch a few movies before we go.” John says. “Or, if you are spending the nights at Marshall’s, I should tell him to educate you.”

_You aren’t wrong. For my position, popular culture is important knowledge. Especially the popular culture that is exported by our own country. – MH_

_I would be a Slytherin, by the way. – MH_

A what? Sherlock wonders.

_I should ask Anthea to hack into the video feeds of the rooms you will be in. It would make up for my lack of plans on Friday evening. – MH_

“I am sure Marshall will make me sit through the movies.” Sherlock replies. “He has a large collection of movies.”

John smiles. “Well, I am certainly looking forward to it on Friday.”

_I will make it up to you on Saturday. – SH_

_Looking forward to it. – MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I had most of this written in April but never published it!  
> Thank you for the patience and support!
> 
> 龙鱼 [lóng yú] - the Chinese name for the Asian arowana  
> 风水 [fēng shuǐ] - refers to the rearrangement and orientation of things in relation to qi (energy)


	10. Chapter 10

“Ah, Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft whips his head around so quickly that he could have sworn he had ripped a blood vessel.

“Mrs. Hudson.” He nods politely at Sherlock’s landlady, feeling a little off-kilter as he had been lost in his thoughts.

“His majesty is upstairs.” Mrs. Hudson informs. She then giggles, “With his boo!”

Mycroft tries to maintain his neutral expression, barely concealing his wince at the word ‘boo’. Not because it is a plebian term, but rather its reference to Sherlock’s fake boyfriend. He is Sherlock’s ‘boo’ – damn it! He hasn’t even made it to his brother’s flat, and he is already facing adversity.

“You should be happy for your brother!” Mrs. Hudson continues, clearly misinterpreting Mycroft’s facial expression. “He is such a kind and polite gentleman.” The landlady sighs, “A looker, too! If only I was…”

Ah, Dr. Hayes has already made such an impression on Mrs. Hudson – and not as a reptile. Mycroft sighs internally, while leaning on his umbrella.

The bag of takeout in his other hand seems to feel ten times heavier than it actually is.

“You must have noticed? Sherlock is less temperamental these days. Happy.” Mrs. Hudson ploughs onward, “Love fixes all ills. And, I suppose the sex helps…” There is another dreamy expression on the landlady’s countenance, while Mycroft tries to suppress a second wince.

“I hope you don’t have a case for the poor boy – he deserves some downtime with his boyfriend!” Mrs. Hudson looks concernedly.

“Oh… ah… No case – just takeout.” Mycroft replies rather dumbly.

“I shouldn’t waylay you any longer, then.” Mrs. Hudson finally gets to the end of the conversation. “I will bring up a cake later. Carrot.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft does not feel happier about the prospect of cake, as delicious as Mrs. Hudson’s cakes are. Sherlock may be forced to make a cake joke or two – and he is not looking forward to that, whatsoever.

There is a shrewd and thoughtful expression on Mrs. Hudson’s face, but she mercifully does not say another word before shutting the door to her flat. Mycroft wonders if he had managed to give something away during this brief encounter.

Sighing, he mounts the seventeen steps.

This was his idea, after all.

.

.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes – you shouldn’t have!” Marshall exclaims as he takes the bag of takeout from Mycroft’s hand. “And this is Italian? Nice! Ooh! Chicken Parmesan – my favourite!” The surgeon deftly opens one of the boxes, before closing it again. “Oh, and here’s some capellini with truffle oil – Sherlock’s favourite!” He then sighs, “I guess we should wait for John then – he took Rosie out and is going to grab some alcohol – I should text him to get some wine!”

“I will do it.” His little brother already has his phone in hand. “Chianti would be nice.”

“Very nice,” Marshall smiles in a way that Mycroft cannot deny the man’s attractiveness. “Tell John to get the good stuff – not the cheap stuff!”

“Already did.” Sherlock nods, as Marshall leans over to give his brother an affectionate peck on the cheek.

God, this is torture. Mycroft manfully does not flinch. Marshall and Sherlock look like a legitimate couple, comfortable in each other’s personal space. And, they look good together…

“Sit, brother.” Sherlock pulls out a chair at the table, while taking his umbrella from him. A flash of concern shows in his lover’s irises, but Mycroft just simply nods and does what he is told.

Marshall fixes him some Earl Grey and hands him the mug.

“Sherlock didn’t mention anything about your existence until today…” Marshall sits down next to him, with his own mug of tea.

“Well… we don’t exactly have the closest of relationships.” Mycroft replies calmly, even though his own words are tearing him into pieces internally – and he could see Sherlock subtly cringe from where he is sitting. “You could say – it’s complicated.”

“I see.” Marshall sips at his tea.

“He thinks I am too overbearing and controlling.” Mycroft continues, finding that he is voicing his actual worries pertaining to their relationship.

“Sherlock is a bit of a force of nature.” Marshall says with fond amusement, “I don’t think anyone could control him. There are Acts of God, and there are Acts of Sherlock.”

“That may be. But he has grown up a lot in the last few years.” Mycroft lets his gaze wander over to his brother, god – all he wants to do is kiss his beautiful plush lips.

It’s true, Sherlock is more peaceful and perhaps a bit wiser than he was before.

Mycroft is, indeed, exceedingly proud of his brother these days.

“Oh! You are the reason why Sherlock wouldn’t let me use my actual initials in my texts!” Marshall changes the topic, and Mycroft tears his eyes away from his brother’s delectable neck. “The original MH.”

Before Mycroft could reply, the flat door opens, revealing Dr. Watson with a bag of clinking bottles.

“Where’s Rosie?” Marshall asks.

“Mrs. Hudson took her. She figures we could use some adult-time.” Dr. Watson goes over to the sink to wash his hands.

The urge to do some serious harm to Dr. Watson seems to have subsided somewhat over the last few months. Mycroft knows what happened between Sherlock and Dr. Watson during the affair of Culverton Smith, and it is only Sherlock’s predilection for the man that had kept Mycroft’s anger in check. He unclenches a fist that he had unconsciously made in response to Dr. Watson’s arrival.

“Mycroft.” Dr. Watson greets.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft inclines his head in acknowledgement.

.

.

This entire situation is bloody unfair.

Sherlock wraps some of the pasta around the tines of his fork, and delicately nibbles at the portion. He isn’t hungry, especially since he can sense Mycroft’s unhappiness – and there is nothing he could do about it – unfortunately. Every time Marshall had done something like a kiss on the cheek, or some other couple-like gesture, Sherlock’s gaze had instinctively gone to his brother. He tries to curb the habit – knowing that Marshall’s own senses of observation and deduction would eventually suss their secret out.

It is only inevitable, anyways.

John and Marshall are talking about the Escape Room from Friday. It had been child’s play – really. Sherlock had simply sat down on the couches that supposedly belonged to the ‘Gryffindor Common Room’ while everyone else had ran around like decapitated chickens, scurrying and searching for clues. He might not know any of the trivia or the story behind that particular Escape Room, but he understands puzzles. And there are only so many ways one can set those up. Instead of simply showing off his intellect, he had waited until the other three were truly stuck and he would solve whatever that needed to be solved from the couch. He can definitely understand now why Mycroft preferred having someone else do the legwork, while he sits and does the thinking.

He feels something nudge his foot from under the table, and he knows without looking that the object is Mycroft’s foot. Sherlock lets his leg rub comfortingly against his brother’s, trying to communicate that this dinner is equally as terrible for him as it is for Mycroft.

.

.

At the end, Sherlock sees his brother out of the flat – after Mrs. Hudson had fed everyone a slice of her delicious carrot cake. When they get to the threshold of the building, Mycroft and he share one long look between them.

_How can it be possible to be standing so physically close to someone, yet it feels like there is an entire ocean separating their beings – their souls?_

When they finally break eye contact, Sherlock wordlessly presses a Tupperware into his brother’s free hand – containing a generous slice of leftover carrot cake.

Mycroft’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise.

Finally, his brother gives him one last fond nod and look before reluctantly turning away to walk towards the waiting car – taking a piece of Sherlock’s heart away with him.

When Sherlock turns around a minute later, he sees Mrs. Hudson gazing strangely at him from the top of the stairs.

“A word, dear?” His landlady makes her way down, and gestures towards her flat's entrance.

Sherlock swallows nervously, and follows her in.


	11. Chapter 11

_I love you. SH_

Sherlock types and sends his message without looking as he sits down at Mrs. Hudson’s dining table. He schools his own face into his usual mask of impassivity, before daring to face Mrs. Hudson as she fusses over her kettle. His phone vibrates several times, but Sherlock, with great restraint, does not check the answering replies.

Mrs. Hudson shrugs her shoulders, “Dear, don’t let my presence prevent you from texting your man.”

 _Oh god. She knows._ Sherlock mentally groans. _Damned womanly insight!_ Sighing, he looks at his messages.

_I love you, too. MH_

_Remember, T-minus eight days till Cycladic bliss. MH_

_Stay strong, little brother. MH_

_xx MH_

“What gave us away?” Sherlock asks, somewhat forlornly.

“Love.” Mrs. Hudson smiles somewhat enigmatically. “Your brother is not a reptile after all.”

“What?” Sherlock is baffled.

_God – we have to survive the birthday party! SH_

Mrs. Hudson giggles, but immediately looks contrite. “I may have called your brother a reptile when you were hospitalized a while back – when he was ransacking your flat.”

“You didn’t!” Sherlock gasps.

_Don’t remind me, brother mine. MH_

“I did.” Mrs. Hudson replies. “Thinking he could just barge in like that while you were gone!”

“Well, he does have a key.” Sherlock sighs, somewhat touched by Mrs. Hudson’s actions. “But, please – don’t tell anyone.”

_It will be worse than this dinner that we’ve already had. MH_

“Sherlock – I would never!” Mrs. Hudson looks aghast. “Do you not know? You are like the son I never had!”

“That includes John too.” Sherlock clarifies. “He doesn’t know. He shall never know.”

_Brother, let’s just run away and elope. SH_

There is a sadness in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. The reality of such a forbidden love is sinking in. “Are you sure?”

“It’s not worth risking, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock sighs. “Mycroft and I had many conversations on this topic over the last few months.”

_Are you proposing? MH_

_By text?!?!? MH_

“How long?” Mrs. Hudson asks next.

“You cannot deduce that? After figuring everything else out?” Sherlock answers teasingly. “More than eight months.” He then asks, somewhat with trepidation. “You… aren’t disgusted by this?”

_Sorry, Mycroft – I will be on bended knee, with a ring and flowers the next time we meet. SH_

“Never! You two are old enough to know your own minds. And, I saw your brother when he was woolgathering before entering your flat earlier. It is clear that he loves you a lot. You know… After that mess at Sherrinford – you changed. You were more open to emotion, and I always thought that you and John would get together…”

_Now you are taking the piss, brother. MH_

“John is too volatile for me.” Sherlock admits, still remembering the rather nasty beating that he had gotten. “And… he’s not my type. At all.”

_Lover mine, you know I would marry you if it were legal to do so. SH_

“And, I see now that Marshall is your beard – you were happy long before you met that dear boy.” Mrs. Hudson adds, while making tea. “Dear, if you ever need advice about your relationship, please feel free to drop by – although I can see that it’s been happy… for the most part.”

_I know. It’s just hard. MH_

_The things that people take for granted. MH_

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock accepts the cup of tea.

“Call me Martha, dear.”

“Martha…” Sherlock tries out the unfamiliar name. “Maybe not in front of John.”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiles.

_I mean these are realities we understood before embarking on our relationship. MH_

_You would think that these truths would be easier to accept over time… MH_

“I think I better go back, before Marshall and John get suspicious.” Sherlock takes the mug with him.

“That may be wise. Good night, dear.”

“Night, Mrs. Hud – Martha.”

_Brother mine, I think over time we better understand the ramifications of our relationship. Neither of us have been in love before this. Maybe one day we should elope, and the consequences be damned. SH_

.

.

“Who should drive?” Marshall wonders out loud.

“I would prefer not to.” Mycroft states his preference. He hardly ever drives, considering that he gets chauffeured everywhere these days.

“I can.” Sherlock offers. “Unless… you prefer to?” His brother looks deferentially towards Marshall.

“We could always switch. How about I drive first?” Marshall catches the keys that Sherlock chucks at him with an athletic ease and unlocks the car. “I love driving. It’s a shame I don’t get to do it in London.”

“Then you can drive the entire way.” Sherlock proceeds to sit shotgun, while Mycroft situates himself at the back.

It’s the only configuration that they could sit in as a fake relationship trumps a perceived fraternal relationship. Mycroft sighs, and he pulls out some reports from a briefcase. Maybe he can at least get some work done, so that he could enjoy his vacation with his lover without worrying about being too behind. But it is hard though. Marshall and his brother share many interests, and they have an endless amount of conversation topics; not to mention that one of Marshall’s Spotify playlists is being played through the car’s speakers – so far Mycroft has heard Psy’s ‘ _Gangnam_ _Style_ ’, Michael Jackson’s _‘Thriller’_ and a Mandarin song that Mycroft actually recognizes – Richie Ren’s _‘_ _我是一隻小小鳥_ _’ – I am a little bird_. It is nice to see his brother interact with another person he genuinely likes – but Mycroft cannot help but be envious. And, he finds himself thinking about the series of texts that he and his brother had exchanged during the previous week.

He might be known as the Iceman, but out of the two of them – Mycroft is the romantic. He likes all the traditional trappings of romance, including flowers (Sherlock brings him bouquets), candlelight (especially during sex) and love letters (he’s written a few to Sherlock, taking care to avoid identifying information). And, when his brother had sent that text with the quip:

_Sorry, Mycroft – I will be on bended knee, with a ring and flowers the next time we meet. SH_

The image had caught him by surprise. He could imagine it – his little brother kneeling before him, and reverently asking him in that lovely deep voice of his for his hand in matrimony; Sherlock’s eyes shining with all the emotions of love, desire and devotion. It was he who had said to Sherlock that they didn’t need to be married, that it would be enough for them to know – but Mycroft is starting to understand that this might not be true.

Sherlock had brought the flowers the next time they had met – a lovely bouquet of white lilies that he had arranged himself.

The next song that plays is Avicii’s _‘Waiting for Love’_ – _this is truly a random collection of songs_ – Mycroft muses. He sighs and looks out the window – watching the cars on the motorway whiz by. He remembers reading about this artist’s death in the news – very recently (weeks ago, possibly?). Life is short, unpredictable and not guaranteed; the events at Sherrinford had definitely shown him that. But, could Sherlock and he possibly do that? Give it all up – their respective lives in England – for the sake of love? They wouldn’t even need to go far if they played it right. Maybe somewhere in Europe? Their trip to Greece would be an experiment of sorts… It is a decision that didn’t have to be made soon – maybe even several years from now? But it didn’t hurt to ponder over the idea. And have a contingency plan in place in the case they did get outed publicly.

EXID’s _‘Up and Down’_ comes next, and Mycroft deduces that Marshall must have an all K-Pop playlist on his phone. God. Maybe Sherlock and he should go take a trip to South Korea – he has many reasons to be thankful for that particular country. That’s it – they should go traveling for a few years after they disappear from England, before settling down in their new locale of choice. That is if they choose to go this route.

“Oh, Mycroft – is my music bothering you?” Marshall suddenly asks. “I know this isn’t exactly to everyone’s taste. Sorry, I should have asked earlier.”

“It’s fine.” Mycroft says, as Marshall switches the playlist anyways. The melancholic strains of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto in d-minor fill the car instead.

And then he listens Sherlock and Marshall debate about which cadenza ought to be played in the piece – the _ossia_ or the _toccata_. Mycroft personally prefers the former – for the drama, and the prolonged climax. He sighs again and goes back to his reports, his mood as somber as the music.

_This is going to be a long and painful weekend..._


	12. Chapter 12

“Sherlock… Myc!” Mummy throws her arms out wide to receive them – first firmly hugging Sherlock, before turning her attention to Mycroft – who winces at her enthusiasm. She then turns to Marshall and beams brightly. “And you must be Sherlock’s boyfriend!”

“Lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Holmes.” Marshall suavely lifts Mummy’s wrinkled hand and bestows a respectful kiss, which immediately makes her giggle like a schoolgirl – a sound that Mycroft could have sworn he had never heard before.

“Ah, you have manners!” Mummy exclaims, which causes Marshall to grin widely. “Please, call me Violet – Mrs. Holmes makes me sound… well old!”

“Nonsense!” Marshall refutes firmly. “And, what a lovely home you have!”

“Thank you – I do not know where Sherlock found you – but I like you already.”

Mycroft has never seen Mummy so happy. This is the first time either of them had brought a significant other home – fake or otherwise. And, knowing that everything is a façade – a smokescreen – somehow makes everything worse. Marshall and Mummy continue to converse with Mummy getting more and more enamored by Sherlock’s choice in pretend boyfriend, while Sherlock and he stand a little awkwardly to the side.

Mummy finally asks. “Is Dr. Watson and Rosie showing up a little later?”

“Yes, Mummy – he’s going to be on the late train – he doesn’t get off work till six.” Sherlock informs.

“Well, boys – you will have to figure out the sleeping arrangements. There are two spare bedrooms with a bed each. We also have an extra single-sized mattress in one of the closets – Siger should know where it is if you lot cannot find it.”

“I guess we better leave John one room.” Marshall says. “Unless – you want to share with John and Rosie?”

It takes a few seconds for Mycroft to realize that Marshall is asking him. “Oh, no – I wouldn’t dream of imposing on Dr. Watson and his daughter.” _Hell is he going to share a room with the man who beat up his little brother._

“Well, I got to use the loo…” Marshall sighs, while Mummy says, “Follow me – I will show you where it is.”

Mycroft grabs his overnight bag and Sherlock’s as well. The two of them mount the wooden steps covered in carpet to the second floor of the house. Sherlock follows close behind; his expression unreadable. They head for Mycroft’s old bedroom – the larger of the two rooms offered – and Mycroft drops his bag on the floor and pulls open the thick scarlet curtains decorated with a motif of golden leaves – allowing the bright May sun to stream in – illuminating the simply furnished space. Strong arms suddenly wrap tightly around his waist, and he feels Sherlock bury his face against his neck. His brother inhales deeply, as if he had been starved of oxygen. They stay like this for a long minute before Mycroft reluctantly frees himself.

“Marshall.” Mycroft says by way of explanation.

Sherlock sighs deeply. “I know. But – it’s maddening. To be in your presence for half a day, and to not be able to touch you.”

“I know.” Mycroft simply acknowledges. “It is how we must live.”

“I hate it.” Sherlock grabs a leather-bound book from the walnut bookshelf next to the double-sized bed. Before Mycroft could speak, Sherlock continues somewhat bitterly. “I know what you are going to say. That we both knew this before we became more than brothers –“

“No – that wasn’t what I was going to say…” Mycroft interrupts, as he watches Sherlock flip rather aggressively through an old text of mythology that Mycroft had indulged in as an adolescent. “At all. Sherlock…” He then sighs – somewhat painfully. “I know. I have said many things in the past that I know now are not true. I was naïve… And, brother… I… never meant trivialize your feelings by saying those things… I –“

“Just wanted to protect me… I know.” Sherlock says resignedly; he drops the book onto the bed – open to a section on Zeus and Hera. Brother and sister. King and Queen of the gods. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, brother. I feel that it has led to many problems that we have had in our relationship.”

“Lover mine.” Mycroft takes a step forward. God. If they had been at home, he would have loved to physically show Sherlock how he felt. Instead he reaches for Sherlock’s hand, and he says, “Old habits die hard. It’s not a valid excuse. I’ve always wanted to be your protector... I tried. And I’ve failed.” _Eurus. The drugs. Victor. The various aspects of their romantic relationship. The list is endless._ _And Sherlock…_ Mycroft reflects. _You’ve also been my protector too._

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whispers, his voice pitched intimately. “I don’t want you to be my protector – I want us to be partners – in everything.”

Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s other hand. “I know. I try.” He then tries to inject a bit of levity into their conversation. “Somehow, I don’t think Zeus and Hera’s incestuous relationship is one I would wish to emulate, little brother.”

“Jealous of all the goddesses and nymphs that I am sleeping with, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle with the type of mischief that Mycroft would have loved to fuck out of him.

Mycroft possessively encircles his brother’s waist with his arms. He says hoarsely; his words bearing more truth than he had realized. “I am always jealous – Sherlock.” He then adds teasingly, “What makes you Zeus – anyways?” His hand reaches up to ruffle and dishevel some Sherlock’s curls. “With curls like these – you should be Hera.”

“Shush.” Sherlock makes a face, and Mycroft can no longer resist. He leans forward to kiss his brother – but the sound of footsteps on the creaking floorboards forces them apart before their lips could meet.

The door opens, revealing Marshall and his luggage. The physician leans his luggage against the bed and greets Sherlock with a simple kiss to the cheek. Mycroft bites his cheek in an attempt to stop himself from sighing.

“Your mother says we can either have dinner here or go out into the village. If I inferred correctly from her tone, she would prefer that we all go out.” Marshall states.

“Then, we will go to the village.” Sherlock agrees. “There are a few semi-decent pubs.”

Mycroft wants to feign a headache and stay in, but Sherlock eyes him with a certain look.

“Then, let’s freshen up and get going? Maybe a dip in the lake might be nice…” Marshall suggests.

.

.

On Friday nights, the pub – the Rising Sun – is full of rowdy customers, threatening to precipitate an actual migraine in Mycroft’s head. It has been ages since he had been in such a place – Mycroft does most of his drinking at home. On the creaky wooden table, sticky with who knows what, is a plate of greasy fish and chips (Marshall’s selection), a chicken pot pie (Sherlock’s) and a salmon salad (his healthy choice). Marshall sips from his pint of Guinness, while Sherlock drinks from a special microbrew distilled by the owner of the pub. Mycroft is simply people watching, while Sherlock and Marshall are having a conversation about a heated game of billiards that they had played the week before. Sherlock’s hand snakes out and steals a handful of crispy fries from Marshall’s plate – and dips them into the tartar sauce.

“Hey!” Marshall exclaims – his voice teasing.

Sherlock winks. “Boyfriend privileges.”

“It’s one thing to take the fries – but the sauce? A disgrace!” Marshall exclaims.

“Just saving your waistline – boyfriend.” Sherlock smirks.

There must be something wrong with him. Mycroft sighs internally. To be jealous of weight jokes made at the expense of someone else. Not that Marshall’s physique warranted such quips – the man clearly goes to the gym at least three times a week. He plays half-heartedly with the leaves of his salad, before Sherlock admonishes, “You really shouldn’t play with your food – brother.”

“I didn’t know you’ve became such an expert on manners – brother.” Mycroft swallows the ‘mine’ before it could escape from his mouth. Instead, he hooks his leg around Sherlock’s.

“I think he means that if you don’t finish your food – he might steal it!” Marshall shoots another fake glare when Sherlock’s fingers snatches some more fries.

“Fancy a game of pool?” Sherlock asks Marshall, changing the topic.

“You ready to lose today?” Marshall says with a cocky grin.

Mycroft works on his salmon – which is a bit on the dry side – while Sherlock and Marshall have another round of banter. His eyes keep deviating towards his brother. As much as he is jealous of Marshall – there is a certain animation in Sherlock’s features that only appears when his brother is engaged in such an immature war of witticisms. He looks younger – more carefree, as if they lived in a world where there is no murdering psychopathic sister. And Mycroft could tell that Marshall is exceedingly fond of his brother – and that if Sherlock wasn’t taken – Marshall would have attempted a relationship with his brother. And, wouldn’t that be so much easier for Sherlock? To be with a man that he could be with in public? Mycroft swirls his tumbler of whiskey, watching the liquid slosh around. A thought crosses his mind – he knows that no one would ever love his brother as much as he does.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock nudges his foot. “We are going to play pool when Marshall comes back with a second round of drinks.” He then looks concernedly at him. “Are you alright?”  

“Just woolgathering.” Mycroft offers a small smile. He says quietly, using the Korean that he had recently been picking up. “Saranghae.” <I love you.>

Sherlock looks stunned, although this isn’t the first time Mycroft has shared his affections in public like this. But, perhaps – this time has the added element of Marshall, who could catch them at any time – and who presumably understands a bit of Korean. His little brother then says quietly – his voice barely heard over the din of the pub. “Haneul mankeum tang mankeum saranghae.” <I love you to the moon and back.> His fingers find their way into the hand resting in Mycroft's lap – hidden underneath the table.

This gesture is already making Mycroft’s heart pound. There is something so poignant about holding his lover’s hand like this in public. How could something so innocent and simple as this be illicit? There’s a smile – so different from the one Sherlock had shown Marshall – that Mycroft desperately wants to kiss gracing Sherlock’s countenance. A secret smile, of forbidden love and passion, just for him. And just as it had appeared, it disappears.

.

.

“I think I ought to turn in.” Marshall yawns when they walk up to the sizable lake on their parents’ property. “Thank you for showing me around. I had a very early start today.”

“Should I head back with you?” Sherlock asks, concerned.

“No – you and Mycroft should stay – enjoy the warm weather and the sunset.” And then Marshall suddenly grips his hand; his calm and kind eyes meeting Sherlock’s. “It’s okay – you know.”

“You know?” Sherlock is stunned – even though he and Mycroft both knew that this day was coming.

“I know.” Marshall nods. “It makes sense. And your secret is safe with me. I swear. I had my suspicions since dinner last week.”

“What… gave it away?” Sherlock asks, tentatively.

“The way you look at him.” Marshall smiles – somewhat wistfully. “And the way he looks at you. As if nothing else matters in this world. Ah – Sherlock – John would never find out – he’s a bit too dense and unobservant for that.” He then looks at Mycroft and says, “You are a very lucky man. I envy you.”

“I know.” Mycroft simply states.

Sherlock is surprised when Mycroft takes a step towards him, reaches for his waist and actually kisses him. It isn’t a simple peck – but instead a kiss given by a man desperately in love. A man who had been dying to kiss his lover all day. Sherlock loves this – how human his once-seemingly-cold brother is now – thawed by the very sentiments that he had once dismissed. When they finally break for air – Marshall is beaming. His fake-boyfriend holds out his phone, and says, “John has just arrived – I might as well go entertain him. Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do!”

“Thank you.” Sherlock hears Mycroft say as Marshall walks back to the house, alone.

“You surprised me.” Sherlock says a moment later while reaching for Mycroft’s hand again. “Declaring your love in public where Marshall could have shown up at any point, kissing me in front of Marshall – you were always so careful about these things…”

“It gets harder to suppress these impulses – brother mine.” Mycroft starts pulling his brother towards the lake, a shimmering body of water hidden in the deciduous trees, illuminated by the colours of the setting sun; magnificent golds, oranges and reds painting both the sky and water. “All my feelings feel so raw – so at the surface – ever since I came back from Beijing. I am terrified that one day I might inadvertently out us in public – Sherlock. But I think it will be easier with Marshall knowing. I can safely act on these urges when he is around. I am grateful for him. As Mummy said – where did you even find him?”

“I am afraid I would have to thank John for that.” Sherlock says with a touch of humour, knowing very much how Mycroft feels about John. “Do you think it’s too cold to go swimming?”

“It was terribly hot the last few days – brother – although it’s okay today.” Mycroft thinks for a moment. “It might be chilly.”

Regardless, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, pulls off his shoes, trousers and briefs and runs into the lake with a mighty big splash. Just as he had done many times in his youth.

.

.

Mycroft sighs, before slowly undoing his waistcoat. He had forgone the suit jacket considering the weather, but he still likes to don his armour even on his days off. As much as he is looking forward to his Cycadean trip – the casualness of the clothes that Sherlock had picked out for him is definitely going to be a challenge. Neatly, he folds all the clothing – including Sherlock’s before heading down to the lake. Carefully he dips his toes into the water – it is lukewarm – but he yelps when a sudden splash of water hits his torso.

“You are a naughty boy – brother mine.”

“What are you going to do about it, Mycroft?” Sherlock has a gleam in his eye, looking very much like a nymph – a siren leading Mycroft to his doom. The sun’s rays strike his brother perfectly, showing off all the beautiful planes of his alabaster skinned torso, and damn – they aren't even in Greece yet. His scars only added to the perfection. And those waterlogged curls begged for fingers to run through them and mess them up further.

“Hm… I don’t know – brother. Something tells me that ignoring you would be the most suitable punishment.” Mycroft yelps again when Sherlock suddenly swims over and hits him with another wave of water. Before Sherlock could flee again, Mycroft hooks an arm onto his muscled legs and pulls him towards him. “Maybe I might need to spank you.”

“Really, physical punishment? I am not a child.” Sherlock says petulantly.

“The way you behave at times is absolutely deplorable.” Mycroft’s voice is more teasing than serious.

“You love it.” Sherlock smirks, looking up at him from the waters. “It’s a shame we don’t have any lubricant. But you will fuck me later, will you?”

“So demanding, little brother.” Mycroft walks deeper into the lake, while Sherlock follows him. “Anything else you would like – your majesty?”

“Are you sure the Royal Family would appreciate your misuse of their – Mycroft!” Sherlock complains loudly when Mycroft proceeds to dunk him into the lake. As strong as Sherlock may be – Mycroft can physically overpower his brother when necessary. A spluttering Sherlock emerges, and Mycroft says sappily, “You are the only regent of my heart – you know.”

“Fuck – kiss me brother.” Sherlock’s eyes are partially lidded with lust. Mycroft goes down and kisses him. Sherlock grabs his arm roughly and they start wrestling in the water – their exertions causing alarmed birds to fly out of their nighttime roosts. Mycroft laughs with glee when he manages to submerge his brother down into the waters again with a neat little trick that he had learned years ago.

“Do you surrender, brother?” Mycroft asks when Sherlock comes up again for air.

“What is there to surrender when I am already yours?” Sherlock winks – his hair is an absolute mess.

“Nan pyeongsaeng nikkeoya.” <I am yours, forever.> Mycroft adds. “I wish it could be like this, always.”

“As do I, as do I.” Sherlock lets Mycroft hug him, and the two of them reluctantly get out of the lake and dry themselves with the one towel that they had brought.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock pokes his head out from the adjoining bathroom door, “Shower with me?”

“It is too risky, brother mine.” Mycroft looks up from his phone.

They had snuck upstairs back to the bedroom, after hearing the voices of John and Marshall in the living room. Their parents had already retired for the night in their room just down the hall.

“Please?” Sherlock pleads with his eyes; he knows it is a powerful negotiation tactic that is potent in minute doses. It isn’t something he does often – in the case that Mycroft may actually develop some immunity – but he needs it – the intimacy. He then adds, “Only Marshall is going to come up here – and he knows already. Please, brother mine?”

“You are a nasty manipulator.” Mycroft sighs deeply as he locks and puts down his phone on the walnut desk – the same desk that he had sat at in his youth. Sherlock knows that he had won when Mycroft starts unbuttoning his shirt before walking over to the bathroom.

“I learned from the best.” Sherlock gives his lover a happy smile as Mycroft strides onto the linoleum.

“No, we are not having sex in here – little brother.” Mycroft shakes his head firmly when he sees the lubrication packets in Sherlock’s hand. Before Sherlock could get a word in, Mycroft continues. “People will hear – and you aren’t exactly quiet, yeobo.” <Darling.>

Sherlock looks sharply at his brother; his words are cautious. “Is that not for married couples only? That specific term of endearment – yeobo?”

“Problem?” Mycroft meets his gaze for a few seconds with his brilliant blue eyes before turning his attention to adjusting the temperature of the water in the shower.

“No… no – of course not.” Sherlock cannot suppress the wistfulness in his voice. He would love that… there is nothing that he would want more. His mind still recollects Mycroft saying at the nascency of their relationship that it wasn’t really necessary for them to be married – they were already tied together through blood. But what is blood anyways? Circumstances dictates family; matrimony is a choice. A chance to shout out loud from the rooftops that Mycroft is the one he loves best in the world.

He turns and sees that Mycroft is already washing himself in the shower, having left his neatly folded clothes on the vanity. There is no use in crying over spilt milk. This isn’t something he hadn’t known before. He uses the dorsum of his hand to wipe at his suspiciously wet eyes.

Opening the glass door, Sherlock steps onto the tiles. Mycroft’s arms immediately reach over to embrace him, and his lips press soft adoring kisses against his face. Sherlock sighs and relaxes when his brother starts shampooing his hair – enjoying the scalp massage. Mycroft washes him quickly but efficiently and a moan escapes from him when one of his brother’s large hand starts to stroke his semi-erect cock.

“I thought we weren’t –“ Sherlock begins to say.

“I meant penetrative sex.” Mycroft clarifies. “I don’t intend to cut you off completely this weekend, brother mine. Although, I do have to apologize to your needy little hole for my neglect.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines softly, “I want it so badly.”

“I know, darling.” Mycroft’s warm breath caresses his ear. “I promise to fuck you well in paradise.”

“Yeobo.” Sherlock tests out the Korean endearment. “Can we come together at least?”

“Of course.” Mycroft’s tone is so fond that it makes Sherlock want to tear up again. His brother’s lubricated hand encircles both their pricks and starts to stroke at a deliciously slow and leisurely pace. Sherlock realizes only now that Mycroft had taken one of the lubricant packets into the shower with him. “Don’t cry, lover mine.” Mycroft whispers, using his free hand to guide Sherlock closer. “I love you, and nothing will change that. Ever.” He then adds, “Do me a favour?”

Sherlock looks up at his brother, and Mycroft says, “Play with your nipples.”

Obediently, he does – letting his fingers gently roll and pinch his hardening little pink nubs. Quiet sighs, moans and groans of pleasure fill the enclosed space and before he knows it – his hips involuntarily jerk and Mycroft orders tenderly, “Cum for me.” – the command is enough to send him to the brink, and he squirts his cum between their torsos. Mycroft ejaculates shortly after he does, and they both slump inward in a loose sort of a hug; their bodies awash with pleasurable chemistry. The relentless cascading water from the showerhead above sweeps away the residue of their love as Sherlock tries to burrow himself into Mycroft’s chest, wanting to be as physically close to his lover as possible.

.

.

“John went up to bed?” Sherlock asks Marshall as he steps quietly into the kitchen, dressed in a soft blue cotton bathrobe.

“You just missed him. Rosie was getting fussy and sleepy.” Marshall leans heavily on the marble counter. His fingers unconsciously run through his rumpled dark hair. “I hope Mycroft and you enjoyed yourselves earlier.”

“We did, thank you.” Sherlock starts rifling through the cupboards and is surprised to see that the tin of cocoa powder that Mycroft and he had used to make hot beverages with in their adolescent years is still present in its usual spot. He opens the lid and takes a careful sniff; obviously this is fresh powder that Mummy had recently bought. Hunting further, Sherlock gathers some chili powder, some cinnamon and all the other essentials before pulling out a small saucepan and combining all of the ingredients over the stovetop, while Marshall simply looks on – somewhat fascinated.

“John said you didn’t cook.” Marshall remarks.

“Ah, what does he know.” Sherlock shrugs. He then shares. “Mycroft likes my cooking.”

“Well, if you cook for me – I can promise to keep my lips sealed!”

“Blackmailer!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Any louder and you will wake our parents, Sherlock.” Mycroft strides into the kitchen, clad in a dark gray bathrobe.

“They sleep with a white noise machine on these days.” Marshall informs. “Or at least that is what your Father mentioned earlier when you two were still outside.”

“Is there enough for me?” Mycroft looks over Sherlock’s shoulder to sniff at the contents heating in the pan. “And is Marshall giving you a hard time, brother dear?”

“I was only joking.” Marshall smiles sheepishly.

“Of course, there is enough for you.” Sherlock offers a small smile to his brother – who is helpfully pulling out three clean mugs from another cupboard. “Thank you, love.” He turns down the heat and carefully pours the rich creamy liquid of the pan into the mugs.

“De nada, lover mine.” Mycroft leans over to press a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “This is the first time you’ve ever made this for me.”

“You made it for us when we were children.” Sherlock recalls quietly, remembering some wintry evenings where Mycroft and he would sit and nurse the sweet hot drinks in front of a roaring fireplace after an afternoon’s worth of frolicking in the snow. Victor was there in the earliest memories – before Eurus… well… killed him. God. And he had rewritten all of his memories – and had conveniently forgotten about all the good times that had happened in his younger years along with Victor’s identity and death. It is funny, how these old memories would bubble up to the surface from the depths of his subconscious when revisiting the old stomping grounds. But then again, this is the first time that Sherlock has been back here since those events at Sherrinford.

“I did.” Mycroft replies.

“You were the best brother.” Sherlock says quietly, too quiet for Marshall to hear.

“No, you were – little brother.”

“I am so sorry that I forgot.” Sherlock whispers.

“And I am very sorry that you had to forget.” Mycroft leans forward to brush his forehead against Sherlock’s. “But that’s all in the past – and Sherlock… I swear I will do whatever I can to make you happy.”

Sherlock interjects sharply, “Not at the expense of yourself, Mycroft. I won’t allow it.” He knows all too well the self-sacrificing nature of his brother when it comes to him. And then he remembers that they have an audience of one, so Sherlock reluctantly breaks away from Mycroft, takes one of the steaming mugs of fragrant cocoa and brings it over to Marshall.

“Thank you.” Marshall grabs the handle of the mug and inhales the aroma with contentment. “You two are too damned sweet.”

.

.

“I guess I will sleep on the mattress.” Marshall offers.

“What if someone walks in on us in the morning?” Sherlock asks.

“There is a lock on the door… little brother.” Mycroft is already sitting on the bed with the leaf-patterned quilt. “Any intruders would have to knock.”

“Kindly keep the sex to a minimum.” Marshall says somewhat drolly. “I am actually exhausted. I’ve been up since dawn.”

“But you wouldn’t turn down a threesome…” Sherlock’s tone is teasing.

“Are you offering?” Marshall is calling Sherlock’s bluff.

An undignified noise leaves Sherlock’s mouth when Mycroft suddenly tackles him onto the bed. He can no longer bear this talk of sharing his little brother – even if it is discussed in jest.

“You are awfully violent today, brother mine.” Sherlock protests weakly as Mycroft gazes down sternly at him.

“Remember what I said about jealousy earlier in the day, yeobo?” Mycroft’s legs straddle Sherlock’s hips tightly.

“That you are jealous – constantly?” Sherlock breathes.

“Yes.” Mycroft bends over to kiss his brother, taking the time to feel the contours of those lovely lips against his. He doesn’t mind at all that Marshall is watching; he wants to stake his claim all over Sherlock. To ensure that Marshall knows for certain that his little brother is off limits.

“Saranghae.” Sherlock says adoringly after Mycroft ends the kiss. “I love it when you are possessive.”

“You drive me crazy…” Mycroft rolls over to the side of the bed closest to the window – the side he usually prefers. He has the odd sort of feeling that Sherlock enjoys provoking these sorts of reactions from him. “My apologies, Marshall. I am not usually like this in front of other people.”

The physician laughs. “I don’t mind at all.” He then says thoughtfully. “It must be so incredibly hard though – to keep such an important part of your life secret. It reminds me of the philosophical saying… If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

“It’s not just that…” Mycroft finds himself elaborating. “It feels validating to be able to express my feelings to the one I love in front of another person who accepts us.” _Well, Anthea knows too – but Mycroft has never kissed or done anything with Sherlock in front of her._

“It feels more real.” Sherlock chimes in. He explains; his voice soft. “I sometimes feel that I am in a dream… I never thought that I would ever fall in love with anyone. Or that I would be so happy.”

“It’s all so terribly romantic.” Marshall is actually dabbing at his eyes. “A modern day forbidden love.” He then sighs, “I am such a sucker for romance – as Sherlock can attest to all the rom-coms we’ve watched over the past weeks. If there is anything at all that I can help either of you with – please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Marshall.” Mycroft thanks Marshall for the second time in one day. He then sighs deeply – his mind thinking about the ordeals and trials of tomorrow. “Now, I think we should all actually go to sleep before Mummy wakes us up early to make us fold napkins into the latest style.”

“Oh god, please tell me that you are joking.” Marshall groans from the mattress.

“Nope.” Sherlock replies while removing the bathrobe so that he could slip into the quilt, naked. He switches off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“I offered her a caterer.” Mycroft grumbles while readjusting his position so that he could cuddle properly with his brother. “She always turns the offer down.”

“And she’s got plenty of slaves…” Marshall sighs.

“Unwilling ones.” Sherlock mutters drowsily.

“Hence, slavery – night!”


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft blearily opens his eyes the next morning; it feels like a déjà vu of sorts – as if he had been transported back to his teenage years – lying in this bed as he had used to do after they had moved from Musgrave. His brother snores softly, snuggled in most of the blanket, curled away from him.

Sherlock had lain with him then – a traumatized little boy – before he had managed to rewrite his memories. Mycroft had felt a sadness that cut to his very soul the day Sherlock had stopped seeking him out for comfort; he had realized that his little brother’s manipulations of his own neural synapses in an effort to repress the trauma of Musgrave had caused him to forget about their own special brotherly bond.

But, alas, that was the past; Mycroft is a firm believer of learning from history, but not dwelling upon it. Nevertheless, he is infinitely glad that Sherlock had decided not to go see their sister anymore – she never did deserve Sherlock’s compassion and love – and even more so after she had caused such unforgivable and irrevocable damage.

Experiments in emotional context – his arse!

Unable to resist, Mycroft’s fingers find themselves entangled in Sherlock’s messy curls, enjoying the silky texture between his digits. His brother twists around in his blankets, revealing glimpses of pale, naked skin that Mycroft can barely make out in the darkness of the room.

“Mm… Mycroft…” Sherlock murmurs drowsily. “What time is it?”

“Early.” Mycroft whispers – mindful that Marshall is still snoring on the floor barely a few metres away. “You can sleep some more, if you would like – brother mine. I estimate that Mummy won’t be pounding on the doors for another hour or two.”

“Not necessary.” Sherlock sits up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. “It will be the only time I will probably get with you – alone –  today.”

“I refuse to have sex with an audience – regardless of how conscious they are.” Mycroft warns.

Sherlock shakes his head and says with a teasing lilt, “You are no fun at all.”

“You did pick me as a lover.” Mycroft says seriously.

“I did. Didn’t I?” Sherlock’s attitude changes for the more profound. Despite the thick curtains obscuring the morning sun, Mycroft can see the solemnity in his brother’s irises. One of Sherlock’s hands reach out to touch Mycroft’s cheek and exerts the gentlest of pressures, inducing Mycroft to turn towards him. Mycroft suddenly feels nervous about Sherlock’s next words.

His brother says with gravity. “I think I have excellent taste, brother. What do you think?”

“You are absolutely absurd.” Mycroft tosses his pillow at his brother, fighting the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. “And here I thought you were going to impart something serious.”

“I am always serious!” Sherlock exclaims, using the pillow to playfully hit his brother.

Mycroft grabs the pillowcase before the pillow could touch him, and Sherlock and he end up struggling for control over the improvised weapon. They remain locked in a stalemate, until Sherlock uses his own pillow to sneakily smack Mycroft’s shoulder and head.

.

.

“Oh, brother mine – you are so getting it.” Mycroft roughly grabs at both of the pillows.

There is a predator’s glint in those normally cool blue eyes. His brother is crouched like a hunting tiger, his limbs tensed to pounce. Anticipatory shudders run through Sherlock’s body – he loves this side of his brother – well – he loves all the facets of his Mycroft – but Sherlock has always enjoyed this playful and dangerous side. He gives his brother the ‘come and get me’ eyes and childishly sticks his tongue out. His lover moves forward – one deliberate limb forward after another – and springs before Sherlock could make a decision to vacate the bed.

“Hm… what do we have here?” Mycroft is looking down at him, his hands pushing Sherlock down roughly into the mattress. “A menace.”

“Your menace.” Sherlock croaks.

“Mm…” Mycroft bends down to brush his nose against Sherlock’s. “What should I do about menaces?”

“You should kiss them.”

“Really? I think they deserve something else…” And fingers find their way down onto Sherlock’s sensitive sides and tickle him mercilessly. Sherlock struggles not to laugh. Damn – that is the real problem of dating one’s brother – they remember all of one’s weaknesses and will exploit them ruthlessly. It has been decades since Mycroft had ticked him like this. He squirms and twists desperately, frantically trying to escape, but his brother’s thighs have him in a vice-like grip.

“Oh god – please.” Sherlock finds himself begging amongst the few giggles that escape from him. “Mycroft. I will behave – I swear.” He tries to stop Mycroft’s hands by grabbing his wrists – but it’s useless. “Please stop.” Sherlock finally says and his brother immediately stills his digits.

Mycroft leans over to kiss a corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock sighs into the kiss.

“I am so horny.” Sherlock complains a moment later, just as the sound of loud knocking comes from the door.

Mycroft groans. “Well, you will have to deal with that on your own. I will make it up to you later – I promise.”

Sherlock sighs, but he non-verbally asks for another kiss – which Mycroft happily provides.

.

.

The morning was absolutely unbearable. There was Mummy – trying to elicit every piece of information about his little brother’s relationship with Marshall while setting them all to work with the discipline of a drill sergeant – whether it was chopping ingredients, folding napkins or setting flower arrangements amongst the other innumerable tasks. Marshall and Sherlock behaved like the quintessential couple – flirting, sharing kisses and laughing at ridiculous and stupid inside jokes that Mycroft could not for the life of him understand the context behind them. If it hadn’t been for the footsie? (God, what a ridiculous name!) war under the table at breakfast or the secret and meaningful glances that Sherlock had sent his way on occasion – Mycroft could have sworn that the pair was the real deal. Everyone bought it – hook, line and sinker – but it is an agony that Mycroft would happily petition to add to the _United Nations Convention against Torture_ treaty. And of course, there was Dr. Watson’s smugness – happy that he had been the one to have brought the star-crossed lovers together.

At the earliest moment possible, Mycroft slips out from the kitchen – heading outside for the backyard. The sun’s rays greet him. He feels the urge to have a cigarette between his fingers – Sherlock and he had shared a smoke back here before all of those other disastrous events that Mycroft will not waste his time pondering upon had happened.

_Your loss would break my heart._ He vaguely remembers saying, under the influence of whatever Sherlock had drugged him with; he had loved Sherlock in an unbrotherly fashion then. It had been a sad realization out here, for he had known exactly what Sherlock had planned to do by the time their conversation had come to an end. It had been a bitter lesson for him; a lesson for Mycroft to clean out his own trash before his brother could do it for him. Sherlock had been his pressure point then – and he will always be his pressure point. If there is a next time, god forbid, Mycroft will be the one remorselessly pulling the fucking trigger on whatever imbecile that stands between them and their happiness.

“Why did we give up the nicotine?”

Mycroft turns around to see his brother leaning against the masonry – in that delectably tight blue shirt that Mycroft prefers.

“In the interests of living longer, little brother…” _Especially now that we both actually have a reason to live a little longer._

“Mummy is driving me absolutely mad. I don’t think my hand will ever be the same again.” Sherlock sighs as Mycroft walks up to him. His little brother smiles slightly and sheepishly. “I guess I should apologize for lacing the tea.”

“Long forgiven.” Mycroft says easily, waving his brother’s apology away. “I should have dealt with that mess much earlier. But enough of these ifs, buts and what ifs. But for the record – if I had to pick between Queen and Country and you again – it will always be you. Remember that.”

“I will, brother – I won’t forget.”

Sherlock then pulls out his phone. Sighs and a frown elicit concern from Mycroft.

“What is wrong, brother mine?”

Sherlock shows Mycroft a text on his phone.

_I have a case for you on Monday. Locked room. Homicide. Can’t make heads or tails of it. Possibly a nine on your scale. GL_

Mycroft curses internally. These are the types of cases that his little brother lives for. But their flight would leave for Athens from Heathrow then. It had taken Anthea forever to squeeze three weeks of his crazy work schedule to make this work. And he had been so looking forward to spending these weeks with his brother – alone – in a place where no one would know who they are.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sounds exasperated. “If you think I am going to give up our time together for this little case, you are an idiot.” He shows him the phone screen again.

_You will have to text or email me the details. I will be out of the country on Monday. I don’t know when I will be back. Suspect that it may take a week or more. Secret case for my brother. SH_

_Would you not be delighted to have an excuse not to take your brother’s case? GL_

_For once, the case is actually interesting, Gabe. Worthy of my talents.  SH_

_Is John going with you? GL_

_No. Your weekly pub nights are safe. SH_

_Alright. I will use my little noggin a bit more and send you the details later. GL_

_Please do. SH_

_Sherlock – I am so proud of you. I didn’t even know that ‘please’ was part of your vocabulary! GL_

_Shut up, Lestrade. SH_

“Hm… something that is worthy of your talents?” Mycroft is both terribly amused and relieved.

“Brother – you are the only being on this planet that is worthy of my talents.” Sherlock winks, before leaning forward to kiss his lips. “Now, I think we better go in – before Mummy realizes that we have both vacated our posts and decides to try us for desertion.”

.

.

“Mycroft!” Great Aunt Magdalena descends upon him in her stylish coatdress as soon as she had entered the house. “How are you? And how is the missus?”

The latter sentence brings a halt to all the other activity in the foyer and adjoining kitchen. Mummy looks amazed, Sherlock looks terribly amused and everyone else looks curious.

“I am well. The missus – well…” For a person who prides himself on thinking quickly on his feet – Mycroft finds himself at an impasse. He could say that they broke up – and suffer through the unwanted pity and Mummy’s future misguided attempts to set him up with women. Alternatively, he could say that his missus is hale and healthy, but too shy to make it for these events – but then that would bring on the inevitable conversations about marriage and children. And, he knows that it is the prospect of no grandchildren that Mummy finds the most difficult to deal with. _Ah… hell._ “We broke up.” Mycroft says. He then adds by way of explanation. “My job, naturally.”

“Well – I am terribly sorry to hear that.” His Great Aunt shakes her head. And somehow – Mycroft can see that she actually does not believe him.

“Myc! I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.” Mummy exclaims.

_Oh yes – I’ve been seeing your other son – for the last eight months!_ Mycroft wants to go bang his head against a wall somewhere. “It was just an experiment, Mummy.” Well, that excuse had worked for Sherlock for so long.

“If your next experiment could involve children, Myc – I would be so happy.” Mummy replies, while Mycroft internally groans. The only child that he could conceive of having is a pet.

.

.

“I sincerely apologize for umm… setting you ablaze – Great Aunt Magda.” Sherlock makes a valiant attempt to steer the conversation away from Mycroft’s rumored girlfriend.

“You naughty boy. I am even amazed that you remembered my name! You were a wee child since I saw you last.” His formidable Great Aunt squints at him suspiciously.

Well – Sherlock muses – it’s not every day some family member sees you masquerading as your brother’s significant other. Of course, he would remember this singular Great Aunt.

“I am still naughty.” Sherlock winks at her – and she actually laughs.

“I can vouch for that!” Marshall comes up and offer Great Aunt Magda an enthusiastic handshake. “I am Marshall – Sherlock’s boyfriend. But – he can be nice.”

“I am sure he can… Who is this little one?” Great Aunt Magda exclaims – pointing to little Rosie who is roaming around.

“Dr. Watson’s daughter – he is a good friend of ours.” Marshall explains.

There is a strange look on Great Aunt Magda’s face at the end of their conversation – and Sherlock really does not know what to make of it. Could it be possible – that she knows what is going on between him and Mycroft? Did something give it away? Or was there something from that party awhile back that she had remembered and had seen even now? Shrugging, Sherlock follows Marshall back to the kitchen, where there are still sandwiches to be arranged on platters.

He was probably imagining things that just weren’t there.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I thought it prudent to end here for now.

Standing on the second-floor landing with his elbows propped comfortably on the polished wooden banister – Mycroft overlooks the throng of guests milling about in the foyer and living room down below. This is his attempt at escaping conversation; there is only so much that he can take from being asked about his ‘ex’ by Mummy and the rest of the relatives who had apparently latched onto this latest gossip.

_Ghastly gossip fiends – the lot of them!_

His phone vibrates.

_Party is bloody intolerable. SH_

_I won’t argue with that, brother dear. MH_

_Where are you? MH_

Besides the horrid conversations going on downstairs, there is also the longing looks that Mummy had cast upon the grandchildren of their Aunt Miriam. Two boys and one girl – just like the makeup of their immediate family – with the added assurance that the girl exhibits no apparent psychopathic tendencies and possesses a regular intellect. To add more fuel to the flames – Aunt Miriam is busy insinuating to Mummy that her lack of grandchildren is due to her not pressuring her sons into producing offspring enough. Shortly after hearing this, Mycroft quickly found an excuse to leave the vicinity before his blood pressure could skyrocket and precipitate a hypertensive emergency.

_Basement. SH_

_We found a functioning foosball table. SH_

_Watching Marshall busy destroying one of our intolerable cousins. SH_

_Sounds fun… MH_

_I am bored out of my mind. SH_

There is a brief pause before Sherlock sends another text.

_Is it ridiculous to say that I miss you? SH_

_No, not at all. MH_

_I miss you too. MH_

_We are separated by two measly floors, yet you might as well be all the way in Timbuktu. MH_

_The spatial separation is necessary. I might do something stupid and rash such as throwing myself in your arms, otherwise. SH_

_Brother mine… MH_

_I want you. SH_

_I long for you. SH_

_I burn for you. SH_

_God… brother – I need you too. MH_

_I would kiss you. SH_

_As would I. MH_

_All over. I would start from that spot you like behind your ear. French kiss your mouth, while divesting you of your waistcoat. Kiss my way down to your cock as my fingers unbutton your crisp white shirt and undo your belt and trousers. Then, I would carefully take your prick into my mouth. SH_

_And lick. SH_

_And suck. SH_

_Fuck. MH_

_I am getting there. SH_

_While I fellate you, brother, I would undo my own belt and trousers. When you are sufficiently hard enough, I will remove the plug keeping my hole open for you and you will fuck me against the nearest flat surface. I am not picky. SH_

_God. Brother. You are an incubus. MH_

_Is there actually a plug up your arse? MH_

_And what happened to your pants? MH_

_Why don’t you find out… SH_

_Sherlock… MH_

_This really isn’t wise. MH_

_When all the bloody damned guests leave. SH_

_Mycroft. I need you. SH_

_Fuck. I will talk to you later – John wants me to have a go with him. SH_

Mycroft sighs deeply in dismay. He buries his face in his hands. _How could this be his life?_ To be in the same place as his lover, but not be allowed to go to him as such. In his mind, he can see Sherlock – looking at him with that specific ‘come-hither’ look – and hear him say in that voice roughened with sexual longing, “Mycroft, I need you.”.

It is more than enough to undo him.

God, was he ever naïve for thinking that he would be satisfied with simply expressing his love for his brother behind the safety of closed doors?

But – alas, this is the cruel reality of it all; as it had been for gay men in the distant past.

Monday cannot possibly come soon enough.

.

.

Eventually, the birthday cake had been cut and devoured. Guests are beginning to excuse themselves and leave as the twilight colours the clear and relatively cloudless skies. Great Aunt Magda gestures to Mycroft to walk her out to her car. Ever dutiful, Mycroft does – helping her carry the ample leftovers from dinner that Mummy had packed for her.

She remarks. “It was nice to see everyone again.” Her tone grows wistful. “The young have grown up, made their way into the world and planted their own roots.” She then carefully looks around, before stating quietly. “You are still with your significant other.”

Her eyes, although rheumy, seem to pierce through all of Mycroft’s armour. She had been bestowed with the gifts of deduction. There is no point in lying to this formidable woman – he reasons.

He agrees. “Yes.”

“Initially, I couldn’t understand.” His Great-Aunt gets to the point. “Your response. I know love when I see it. Especially the special love shared between Ariadne and yourself all those weeks ago. She thawed you out – completely – Mycroft… It was all wrong – your behaviour today. It is not how someone heartbroken would act – but rather – it is the behaviour of someone pining for their lover. And I realized that if Ariadne had been Ariadne, you would have answered my question truthfully, regardless of what your Mother would have thought. I puzzled over this at dinner – and then I saw that someone else at the table had the same expression of longing on their face, Mycroft – despite them being with their so-called significant other. And then – I saw how he looked at you – when he thought no one else was watching – and immediately everything became crystal clear.”

Mycroft has absolutely nothing to say when they finally reach the automobile.

Solemnly, she says. “Mycroft… Take it from an old lady that life is too short to live it miserably.”

“I know.” Mycroft says, somewhat incredulous that a relative of theirs has absolutely no problems with incest. “I have never been more aware of this fact.”

And then Great Aunt Magdalena actually smiles. She reaches over to pat his arm. “My boy – you will figure this out. You’ve done more than your share of duty for this ungrateful country; it is now time to live. Goodnight.”

With that farewell, Mycroft watches as his Great-Aunt gets into the car, starts the ignition and drives off. It is only a vibration from his phone that breaks him from his stupor.

_Shed adjacent to lake. Twenty minutes from now. SH_

Live he shall – Mycroft thinks. With a small smile, he texts back.

_Your wish is my command, lover mine. MH_


	16. Chapter 16

The shed is old and worn down. Various tools – for carpentry and fishing – hang neatly on racks. A lone lightbulb hangs from the ceiling. Sherlock’s long arm reaches up and he tugs on the simple cord to illuminate the space. Only Father comes here nowadays – his hideaway from Mummy and his place for his woodworking hobby. The light cast by the bulb is dim, creating intriguing shadows as the final traces of sunlight fade over the horizon.

Butterflies flutter in his abdomen. Sherlock does not understand why he suddenly feels so queasy. It is simply one of many a meeting between his brother and him. Yet, he finds himself plagued by doubt. Would Mycroft not show up? Sherlock shakes his head hard; his brother had said he would come – and Mycroft isn’t in the habit of letting him down.

It had been so hard – playing the happy couple with Marshall in front of his entire family, John and Mycroft.

Especially Mycroft.

It fucking hurt.

Maybe in a different dimension, in a friendlier alternative universe, Mycroft and he could be out in the open – free to show their love to the world. Instead, he had spent the majority of his day by Marshall’s side – feeling a longing ache whenever he crossed paths with his brother – his lover. Pretending that they weren’t lovers in public had been exciting and easy at the nascency of their relationship – an exciting illicit secret just for two – but after Mycroft’s long trip for his work abroad – the very idea had rapidly turned into bitter ashes in Sherlock’s mouth.

And he can tell that Mycroft feels the same way.

The door slowly creaks open.

“Sherlock…”

He turns around to see his lover – dressed immaculately in his customary shirt, waistcoat and trousers despite the long arduous day. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, and his hair had been tousled by the cool May breeze on his walk here.

“I am sorry I am late.” His brother is apologetic.

“What matters – is that you came.” Sherlock says quietly, as Mycroft nudges the shed door closed with his foot.

“Were you followed?” His brother, ever the cautious one, asks.

“I told Marshall and John that I needed to walk outside alone – to decompress. They were watching a movie in the living room when I left.”

And Marshall would make sure that John wouldn’t go looking for him.

“So, we are finally alone.” Mycroft takes a tentative step forward; his voice soft and tender.

“It appears so.” Sherlock replies nonchalantly.

“Brother mine…” His brother closes the gap, and Sherlock flings himself into Mycroft’s sturdy and always reliable arms; he buries his face as deep as he could into his lover’s shoulder and inhales nosily – taking in his brother’s essence – a mix of cologne, sweat and a special scent that is Mycroft himself.

All the wariness that Sherlock had felt accumulating within him throughout the day seems to dissolve almost at once. A glimpse of nirvana after a day fraught with difficulties. His own Garden of Eden. Tentatively, he looks up at Mycroft, imploringly. The gentlest of kisses greets his forehead – journeying down his face until their lips meet.

Something ignites within them – changing their languorous desire into a fierce and passionate one. There is tongue – and Sherlock’s fingers move deftly – and somewhat shakily – to undo the buttons of his brother’s waistcoat. They moan together into each other’s mouths, when their cocks inadvertently touch. Clothes get strewn across the wooden floor in their haste. Sherlock groans when Mycroft presses him against a wall, before his brother gets down onto his knees to take Sherlock’s prick into his heavenly mouth, while his wondering fingers puts the perfect amount of pressure against his perineum – letting the fingertips slowly drift towards his stretched hole.

He whines when Mycroft releases his cock with an abrupt and indecent slurp.

“You weren’t lying about the plug.” Mycroft’s tone is wondrous as he uses a knuckle to lightly tap at the flared base.

“Why would I lie about that – mpphffff!”

Sherlock’s words die into a lascivious moan when Mycroft pulls at the plug and thrusts it back into him – causing his hips to involuntarily buck. “God, brother – I need your cock.” Sherlock manages between his other needy noises.

“Of course, you do.” Mycroft replies, teasingly – before using the toy to fuck him again. “When did you not want my cock?”

“Mycroft… please don’t tease…” Sherlock pleads – desperately – almost at the verge of tears.

His brother finally removes the plug with a squelch, before placing it on the nearby workbench.

“I won’t.” Mycroft gently repositions Sherlock against the wall – so that his front is facing it. Apologetic and tender kisses get lovingly pressed against his shoulder and neck. “I will look after you – little brother – I promise.”

“Please.” Sherlock begs as Mycroft aligns his cock with his hole.

He sighs when Mycroft finally sinks in.

“God… you feel so good.” Sherlock moans as his brother’s hands caress his skin, before reaching around to tease his sensitive pink nipples into hard peaks. “Mycroft…”

They rock together – happy to draw this out for as long as they possibly could – letting the pleasure simmer and build slowly between them. He groans when Mycroft’s hand finally reaches down for his cock and begins to stroke it.

“Are you close, brother mine?” Mycroft’s breathing is becoming noticeably stilted.

“Yes, brother.” Sherlock pants.

“Cum with me.” Mycroft breathes.

Sherlock spills his seed against the wall with a harsh grunt, and Mycroft ejaculates almost instantly into him in response. They collapse heavily against each other – using the wall as support.

“I love you.” Sherlock whispers. “So much.”

“As do I.” Mycroft presses a kiss onto the corner of his mouth.

“We will have to use the back door of the house.” Sherlock says thoughtfully moments later – his eyes falling upon the discarded clothing. “Our clothes are absolutely filthy.”

“You should head back first.” Mycroft separates from Sherlock and proceeds to pick up their clothes off the dirty floor. “Mummy and Father would have gone to bed already.”

“Alright.” Sherlock suddenly feels depressed as he reluctantly gets dressed. This is how their illicit evening tryst will end – scheming on how not to get caught by those who are not in the know.

“Lover mine.” Mycroft notices the shift in Sherlock’s mood immediately as he puts on his shirt. There is almost a frantic sort of desperation in his brother’s voice. “It won’t always be like this. I swear.”

 _This is how it must always be…_ Sherlock thinks somberly as he walks out the door while slapping the dust and debris off his clothes.

.

.

“I wish you two would give her another chance…” Mummy catches both Sherlock and his brother in their bedroom packing the next day while Marshall is taking a quick morning shower in the adjoining bathroom before they leave.

Sherlock shakes his head gravely. He had expected this conversation to occur at some point during their stay. “I think we’ve given her more than enough, Mummy.”

“She is _your_ sister. Your only sister.”

“No.” Sherlock puts his foot down. Mummy isn’t used to straight out resistance from her sons. But Sherlock knows that this is something he is not willing to compromise on. This is the hill to die on. Mycroft and he had agreed that they would never physically step foot in Sherrinford again unless if the situation is emergent. The risk is too great for them. Sherlock will not let Eurus ruin the best thing that has ever happened in his life. “I’ve suffered enough at her hands in my lifetime.”

“We are family. I’ve never given up on you, Sherlock – no matter how many times you had relapsed on the drugs.”

 _Oh hell no. Mummy cannot be possibly throwing his sordid past at him in this way._ It is almost unforgivable; a cheap attempt at guilt-tripping at best. And Mummy had never actually been present during any of the times he had overdosed – that had always been Mycroft; the only person who had always been there for him.

The one constant in his life.

Sherlock stands up from the bed – his back straight, his shoulders and jaw set in a way to do battle. But Mycroft interjects; his quiet voice is as cool as ice. “You can’t be serious – Mummy? Comparing Sherlock’s drug use to our sister’s numerous misdeeds?”

“It’s been decades! She’s grown up.” Mummy retorts – of course completely ignorant of all the events that actually happened at Sherrinford almost a year ago.

“Mummy – you must give up this fantasy of us all playing happy family in this lifetime.” Mycroft’s voice is insistent. “It will never happen. Eurus cannot be helped. She’s beyond us.”

“Then obviously, you haven’t tried hard enough.” Mummy states.

“Then, we are at an impasse.” Mycroft states calmly, even though Sherlock knows that Mummy’s words do wound his brother terribly. “You and Father are welcome to visit Eurus at any time, but we will not join you.”

“Very well. Mycroft – know that I am exceedingly disappointed.” Mummy shakes her head before departing from the room.

Sherlock shrugs – he cannot find it in himself to give a crap as Mummy leaves their room. And, he cannot help but to observe the irony – in Mummy’s attempts to reunite their family – she would cause it to fracture further.

“She still resents you.” Sherlock observes as the door closes behind Mummy.

Mycroft sighs deeply – and painfully. “I know. I did take her only daughter away from her for years.” He then adds, “You had no idea how delighted Mummy was to have a daughter – you were barely a toddler then.”

Sherlock hugs his brother tightly. “You did the best you could.” He proceeds to press a soothing kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “And you will always have me, big brother.”

.

.

“Good god, you look so different…” Mycroft drops his phone in his lap; his eyes simply gawk at his brother – disbelievingly.

Sherlock is dressed casually: there is a pair of slim-fitting and tight dark jeans, a sporty zip-up navy-blue hoodie, a black V-necked shirt exposing the lovely anatomy of his pale chest and neck and a pair of trendy running shoes.

His hands are hidden in his hoodie’s side pockets.

But it is the hair that shocks Mycroft the most. It is freshly cut – an undercut – but Sherlock had left the top longer and had it styled into a rakish looking quiff. His brother does not look like his brother – but rather some famous movie star. Damn, Sherlock really did mean it when he said that he was going to dramatically alter his appearance in order to not be recognized by the masses.

His brother sits down beside him and removes the knapsack he has slung on his back. The bag gets placed in the empty chair next to him and he pulls his sleek carry-on closer towards him.

“I hope in a good way...” Sherlock replies, his voice betrays his trepidation.

Mycroft knows that Sherlock is vain about his appearance – despite his apparent disdain for most trivialities. But Mycroft knows that he would love his brother – no matter how he looked. And in this case, he can be honest. “You look hot, darling mine.”

The obvious relief in Sherlock’s body language highly amuses Mycroft – although he is careful not to show any of this on his person. Unable to resist, Mycroft reaches out and strokes the shorn hair on the sides of his brother’s head. He already loves the smooth and silky texture of the short hairs against his fingertips – but he will miss those longer wild curls that had been such a distinctive feature of Sherlock’s appearance.

And of course – incredibly fun to grab during sex.

His brother slumps against Mycroft – and looks years younger when he confesses, “I miss them already. Even my coiffeur asked twice if I was sure I wanted him to do it. I almost didn’t go through with it.”

“It’s hair – lover mine.” Mycroft says quietly – his voice pitched only for his brother to hear. “It will always grow back. And you had it shaved when you went to go dismantle Moriarty’s network.”

“It’s _my_ hair. And that was for work.” Sherlock retorts. “But I don’t regret it.” He whispers thoughtfully. “We don’t have to pretend anymore – no one will know who we are.”

“Let’s save the public displays of affection for another country – yeobo.” Mycroft says, despite knowing that his brother is most likely correct. Even people who knew Sherlock in their everyday lives would have trouble recognizing him right now.

But Mycroft knows that it will always be too dangerous in England.

Sherlock pouts, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans further against Mycroft and rests his head against his shoulder – straddling the boundary between fraternal and romantic affection. Carefully, Mycroft lets his arm slip behind Sherlock’s back – willing to give his brother this much.

They snuggle like this without another word between them until the first-class boarding call for flight BA 632 to Athens comes over the PA.


	17. Chapter 17

The Aegean Sea beats a constant rhythm as the waters crest and recede against the shore. Things are much slower here on the Cyclades; a dramatic contrast to the hectic nature of London. A Sherlock of a year ago would not last long here. He would have been bored out of his mind within a handful of minutes. Alas, time and life – like the relentless sea gradually chipping away at the bedrock of the island – has changed things.

He props his elbows on the edge of a pool, looking down at a quieter, more isolated spot on Mykonos. The radiant sun has begun its slow descent, setting the sky aflame. Down below on the private beach – another couple is taking a walk – leaving two sets of footprints side by side on the otherwise untouched white sand. Two men with their hands entwined. A sudden sense of longing fills Sherlock’s chest. He wonders if Mycroft would dare hold his hand here on the island. In public.

The waves of the sea crash against the shore, obliterating the footprints. There’s a metaphor somewhere here. The two men have stopped in the middle of the beach. Their heads are tilted towards each other and they share a lingering kiss. The world is a bowl full of goldfish who are privileged to take these simple pleasures for granted.

Sherlock sighs; he shouldn’t be feeling like this. Not here. He should be happy that he gets Mycroft to himself for a few weeks. And, somehow – he intuitively knows that these weeks are important ones that will shape the course of their future relationship. Back in London, their time together is stolen. The longest they had spent time alone is a weekend.

During these precious moments, they had done mundane things that Sherlock had never thought he would ever enjoy. They had gone out to the local Tesco, planned and executed meals (last time they had made curry from the recipe that Mycroft had brought back from Japan along with tempura, miso soup and rice), walked in the local park and had a healthy amount of sex. Not that the latter was mundane by any means; sex with Mycroft is indescribable.

Sherlock has never better understood the motives behind crimes of passion.

The most daring thing they had done one night after eating a late brotherly meal at a nice Italian restaurant (not Angelo’s for obvious reasons) was that they had actually gone to a movie theatre afterwards. Mycroft had picked the movie. Sherlock had paid scant attention to it – but it had involved an annoying racoon of some sort. He had instead been paying attention to how close Mycroft was to him and monitoring the location of his brother’s casually draped arm which slowly – over the course of the movie – casually migrated over to Sherlock’s shoulders. They had kissed in their dark corner. Multiple times. It is as public as their affection could ever get in London. In fact, Sherlock had been astonished that Mycroft had gone along with the kisses at all. It had felt dangerous – more of an adrenaline rush than taking down Moriarty’s damned web had ever been.

He yelps when strong arms encircle his lower torso from behind – too lost in his thoughts to pay attention to his surroundings. There is the familiar dark chuckle of his brother who whispers teasingly in his ear. “How on earth do you even do legwork if you are so oblivious to your surroundings – little brother?”

“Mm… too busy thinking of you…” Sherlock murmurs back.

Mycroft’s voice grows concerned as their conversation takes a turn for the serious. “Sherlock… I can’t afford to be your weakness. I…” He trails off – unable to continue, but Sherlock doesn’t need Mycroft to complete his sentence to know. To know that Mycroft would not be able to live with himself if Sherlock got grievously injured or worse on a case by being distracted.

Sherlock swallows visibly before saying. “I promise – lover mine – that I will do my utmost to return to you in one piece on all my cases.”

“Do you know…” Mycroft begins – somewhat hesitant.

Sherlock waits patiently – taking the time to melt further into his brother’s gloriously naked and hairy chest.

“How much I worried when you left England to dismantle Moriarty’s web? I blamed myself, you know – that I had let things spiral so out of control like that.”

“But it was the only solution.” Sherlock says. “We had to.” He tilts his head towards his brother, finally facing away from the sea. “I am sorry.”

 _More sorry than you would ever know – brother._ _For being arrogant, self-destructive, selfish – for allowing Moriarty to play him so well._ _For causing you so much pain._

.

.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says firmly. “Please stop apologizing to me. I’ve told you long ago that it’s all forgiven.” He then says softly. “Guilt festers.”

“I know…” Sherlock replies – there is something melancholic in his tone. “I can’t help it.”

“Lover mine.” Mycroft is determined to flip the mood. They didn’t come to Mykonos to air out all the dirty laundry of years past. That would take time. He bends his neck down to kiss his brother’s curls and forehead. “My gorgeous darling.” He whispers gently. “I want you for dessert – after dinner.”

“I will be allowed to enter the bedroom then?” Sherlock asks, somewhat amusedly.

Mycroft had forbade Sherlock from going into the bedroom in the villa that he had rented when they had arrived. He had asked the concierge to prepare a few things for him – and he didn’t want the surprise ruined before then.

“Of course.” Mycroft smiles.

“Are you going to do something horribly sentimental, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks – with a minor amount of trepidation.

“Terribly.” Mycroft admits. But he needs it. Sherlock needs it too – as much as he pretends to tolerate Mycroft’s love of romantic gestures. “You are going to hate it.”

.

.

There is a teasing and carefree lilt in Mycroft’s words that Sherlock has never heard before.

This is a Mycroft completely unburdened by any sort of worry – national or personal.

It’s beautiful.

“I take it that we are going to stay in, then?” Sherlock asks. “Instead of going to go examine the nightlife?”

“Do you actually want to go party at a club, brother?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not really my thing – as you know.” He then dares to request. “I would love to dance with you – darling mine.”

“We could probably go do that at some point. I will make sure of that – mon amour.” Mycroft nods. “But – should we order dinner in? And then – we can ravish each other?”

“Sounds like a plan, brother.” Sherlock agrees.

And Mycroft gently brushes his lips against his, giving him a tender lingering kiss – similar to the one he had seen the couple from down below share earlier. He basks in the affection that his brother conveys – and feels somewhat bereft when Mycroft finally breaks it to breathe.

“Rinse yourself off and I will see you inside – Sherlock. It’s getting a little too windy for eating outside.” Mycroft says before he drops one last kiss onto Sherlock’s cheek, before reluctantly turning around to leave their private pool in order to arrange for dinner.

Sherlock turns back to see that the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon. It is getting colder now – with the gentle early evening breezes transforming into stronger winds. Sherlock decides to do a few laps of freestyle to warm himself up before finally climbing out of the pool. He walks over the paved stones towards the traditionally whitewashed villa and he turns on the outdoor shower to quickly rinse himself off. Grabbing a fluffy white towel placed conveniently on a nearby rack, Sherlock dries himself off before reentering the villa.

.

.

There is something about the salty Cycadean air that awakens Sherlock’s usually limited appetite. His brother watches with approval as marinated legs of octopi, pieces of grilled seabass, roasted potatoes, strands of lobster spaghetti and bites of an onion pie disappear down Sherlock’s throat. The Pinot Gris that accompanies the meal is heavenly. There are a few lit candles at the centre of the table – one squat and two long – and a narrow vase containing a pleasing mix of white and purple lilies sitting on top of the thick white tablecloth. Mycroft had taken the time to change – dressed in a fresh shirt and a waistcoat – that resembled too much of his normal attire for Sherlock’s liking.

They eat quietly – taking the time to savour some of Mykonos’ delicacies. The firelight from the candles is the only source of illumination, aside from the light from outside (muted lanterns illuminating the backyard of the villa along with the crescent shaped moon). It is the type of romantic setting that appeals to Mycroft while Sherlock is just simply content sharing this meal with him.

Flowers – Sherlock thinks as he chews – Mycroft loves flowers – even more so if they are picked and given by Sherlock. And he always did. A tendril of formerly forgotten memory surfaces; he had picked flowers as a child out in the fields and had given them to his brother after his adventures. They were tangible treasures that he as a roving pirate could find and give to his favourite person. And, he had never picked flowers for anyone else. Mycroft would accept them solemnly, and Sherlock would always find his offerings carefully and thoughtfully arranged in a vase somewhere in his brother’s room later.

Funny, how a decades old ritual is restarted, but with a different kind of love and significance behind it. The first bouquet that Sherlock had brought Mycroft in their relationship had featured daffodils; his attempt of asking for forgiveness after accidentally upsetting his brother over something that he had thought was trivial. He wasn’t even sure what prompted him to buy the bouquet of cheery looking yellow flowers in the first place – but Mycroft had forgiven him on the spot – and Sherlock had been buying flowers for Mycroft ever since then.

“What are you thinking about, brother mine?” Mycroft asks.

“Flowers.” Sherlock replies, picking up his fork to spear another bite of delicious pie. “And your appreciation of them.”

“They are fascinating.” Mycroft says as he sits back comfortably on his chair after placing his fork down. “How deeply entwined they are with society – and how much symbolic meaning they have.”

“The white lilies…” Sherlock muses, “Purity and chastity for the Virgin Mary…” He then adds amusedly, “I am neither pure nor chaste, brother. I think you saw to that quite thoroughly months ago. My deflowerment.”

Mycroft actually laughs. “Deflowering, lover mine, applies to females. The flower is meant to represent the hymen in that context. The metaphor was explored in poetry and song during the age of the Romans and has persisted since. In one notable piece of epithalamium or wedding song, a bride was likened to a flower growing in a secluded garden – desired by everyone for as long as she remains untouched. To quote the actual poet, Catullus, himself on deflowerment – _she has lost her chaste flower, her body besmirched/she neither remains pleasant to boys nor dear to girls_.”

“Ridiculous.” Sherlock runs his fingers along the stem of his wineglass. To think that something as arbitrary as virginity determined one’s reputation in society. Of course – it had only applied to females back then – but still. Men were free to be as slutty as they liked. And yet… the double-standard still endured in modern day society.

He then says playfully, “I hope I am still pleasant to you, brother mine.”

Mycroft leans forward; his face illuminated only by flickering candlelight. There is a hypnotizing play of shadows accentuating the gorgeousness of his lover. “If we are still playing around with the same metaphor, darling, does this make you my bride?” There is the barest hint of silk that sends a shiver down Sherlock’s nerves.

“Somehow…” Sherlock starts, “Regardless of what I say – you are just going to carry me off to have your indecent way with me, you rake!” He watches as his brother smiles at his words – a predatory look. His voice then grows a bit wistful. “But, yet – if this was a way that we could be together, Mycroft… I would happily be your bride, your wife. It doesn’t matter, as long as I have you.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft is sincerely touched. His brother stands up and offers a hand which Sherlock promptly takes. They walk a few steps away from the table, before Mycroft pulls him in towards him. His lover whispers hoarsely. “God. Do you know how much I love you?”

“Not as much as I adore you.” Sherlock’s eyes meet his brother’s smoldering gaze.

Mycroft leans forward and their lips crash together hungrily in a frenzied kiss. Somehow, they manage to stumble to a bare wall, with Sherlock’s back leaning against it. Breathlessly, they break apart.

“You cannot fathom the depths of my affections.” Mycroft says between his pants. They share another peck, before Mycroft whispers while his fingers move up to caress Sherlock’s cheek, “You would make a stunning bride, little brother. In white, lace and silk. But, alas – I prefer the modern symbolism of the white lily – to be with you, lover mine, is to be in heaven.”

“And it is hell to be apart from you.” Sherlock says quietly. “Even more so if we are in the same space but cannot be free to express ourselves.”

“I know.” Mycroft replies back gently. “I know, little brother… May I?” His brother asks ambiguously with a promising look, and Sherlock nods before Mycroft grunts, picks him up and carries him like a bride over the threshold to their bedroom.

.

.

Mycroft kicks the door open to the untouched bedroom, where a king-sized bed with white linens awaits them. He gently tosses his brother down onto the bed, before reaching for a bucket of red and white flower petals. Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed when the fragrant contents get dumped over him and spill onto the bedsheets.

“Terribly sentimental indeed.” Sherlock mutters. “As I have deduced.”

“Now, brother…” Mycroft says sternly, although it is hard to keep a straight face. “You like this as much as I do.” He kicks off his shoes and crawls over his brother – straddling him, before his fingers move to pull the sinfully tight shirt off his brother. “Now that I have carried you off – I am going to have my wicked way with you – darling mine.”

“Besmirch me, Mycroft.” Sherlock grins fondly. “Ruin me. Fuck me.”

“That’s the plan.” Mycroft reaches down to divest Sherlock of his jeans and grins at the lack of pants. “Do you even own pants, little brother?”

“I figured I could save myself the trouble and do less laundry by skipping the pants, especially if the pants are just going to come off after dinner…” Sherlock smirks.

Mycroft cannot resist any longer, and he leans down to kiss his brother. He then makes a request, “May I take a photo of you?”

“Oh, starting a wank bank – brother mine?” Sherlock grins impertinently, which causes Mycroft to swat at the side of his bum. “Ouch! Fine. Yes – take your picture!”

Mycroft reaches for his phone, tucked in his waistcoat pocket. He had set up a heavily encrypted cloud storage before they had left for Greece – and set his and Sherlock’s phones to transmit any images to it. The program would delete the pictures stored on their secure phones a few minutes after. The protections employed are more secure than most government secrets.

Sherlock is already rearranging himself in his best ‘come hither' pose while Mycroft gets up from the bed and helps Sherlock scatter the petals artistically around and on his brother’s gorgeous body. When they are both satisfied, Mycroft takes his phone and snaps a few shots, before placing it on the nearest piece of furniture. He swings himself back onto the bed with surprising agility and proceeds to ravish his lover.

God. He would never get enough of this. Sherlock’s little moans and groans of pleasure seem to go straight to his cock, and he loves how responsive his lover is to him; the way how wantonly Sherlock would arch into his touches and buck his hips – asking silently for more. Somehow, in their entanglement, Mycroft loses his clothes and gains a tube of lube. It has been awhile since he had been on the receiving end, and he actually wants to be the bottom – but Sherlock is already wiggling his arse, already silently cajoling Mycroft to stick his fingers into his needy hole. So, like the indulgent lover he is, he does so – preparing Sherlock so slowly and carefully that he is reduced into a whimpering and begging mess – pleading so beautifully for Mycroft’s cock to put him out of his misery.

Grabbing a plump pillow, Mycroft shoves it under his brother before lining his prick up with Sherlock’s slick hole, and he presses in – feeling the familiar muscle immediately cling so tight against his cock. They groan simultaneously at the pleasure of penetration, and Sherlock uses his legs to coax Mycroft into fucking him faster.

“Not a virgin, brother mine.” Sherlock mumbles in between his other cute little sex noises. “I won’t break.”

“No, but I want to make love to you – little brother.” Mycroft leans down to kiss him, which causes Sherlock to frantically rock against him more in order to rub his cock against Mycroft’s belly. “God… you feel so good around my cock.” Mycroft pants, before asking a seemingly irrelevant question, “Do you know why I love flowers so much?”

“Brother please…” Sherlock looks at him imploringly.

“Because they remind me of you.” Mycroft says with utmost seriousness – fucking Sherlock once with every syllable. He then honestly admits. “They never really interested me until you started bringing me flowers as a child.”

“God. I remember.” Sherlock replies breathily. “I remember I cut you a rose from the garden, and Mummy was furious. It was the one and only time she ever spanked me.”

And, Mycroft wants to weep, because shortly after that came Victor’s death and the gradual deterioration of their relationship. He still has the rose – oddly enough – he had pressed it to preserve it – and the book he had hid it in had fortuitously not been at Musgrave when the fire happened. And in the years that followed, all Mycroft had to do was to open the well-thumbed copy of _Faust_ to reminisce and later even fantasize about how things could have been. Especially on days that had been particularly difficult. Although, he hadn’t looked at or thought about the rose at all since their unbrotherly relationship had begun.

“Brother mine…” Sherlock sounds concerned. “You are crying.” His brother reaches up to tenderly wipe at the supposed tears. “You’ve suffered so.”

“I suppose I am.” Mycroft says weakly. “I am okay.” Their lovemaking has transitioned to a languid pace. “And, brother – all the suffering is worth it to end up here. With you.”

“Journeys end in lovers meeting.” Sherlock says softly – Mycroft is amazed that Sherlock has retained any knowledge of Shakespeare at all – and his little brother then asks a moment later. “Would you come with me?”

Mycroft groans while picking up the pace again – making sure to make every thrust matter. “Sherlock, I would follow you anywhere. Fuck. I… love… you…”

And his brother gasps and throws his head back against the bed when he ejaculates – and his shuddering internal muscles give the perfect amount of friction for Mycroft to follow soon afterwards. They collapse against each other, panting. Cuddling up against his brother, Mycroft thinks.

_I never want to be separated from you again – little brother._


	18. Chapter 18

_How’s life in paradise? ZW_

_Nauseatingly saccharine. SH_

Under the shade of a large parasol, Sherlock taps away at his phone while lying belly-side down on a soft fluffy towel on top of a sun lounger. A gentle sea breeze blows, offering refreshment against the heat. In the distance, there is the raucous laughter of children frolicking in the Aegean. It is quiet on their strip of beach on Ornos, three kilometres away from _Chora_ – the old town of tight picturesque alleyways that Mycroft and he had spent a delightful morning getting lost in. Well, after they had managed to tear themselves away from their ‘honeymoon’ bed.

_Ah, so everything is going as expected. ZW_

_Pics? ZW_

Sighing, Sherlock taps on the _Photos_ icon. He had toyed with Mycroft’s programming so that the pictures taken on his phone would be deleted a few hours after they were taken. Three people on this planet knew that Mycroft and he are on vacation: Anthea (who organized most of it), Mrs. Hudson and Marshall. On the last night before they had left, Mycroft had some last-minute work to do, so he had spent the evening at Marshall’s, playing Mario Kart and watching _The Notebook_ while eating Indian takeout and petting the dogs.

**

_“You know, I am not really going away for a case.”_

_“I figured.”_ Marshall had said, his brown eyes had twinkled with merriment. _“You lovebirds are going on vacation! Where?”_

 _“Cyclades.”_ Sherlock had said, while stroking Socrates’ furry back.

 _“Jealous! I’ve always wanted to go!”_ Marshall had exclaimed. _“Hell… you two deserve it. Send pictures, won’t you? Allow the less fortunate to live vicariously through you!”_

 _“You will have to delete them, along with our texts after you receive them.”_ Sherlock had warned.

There had been a look of sadness on his friend’s face. _“I will.”_ He then said, _“Bah, laws. Outdated. You can count on me, Sherlock. Come on – let me beat your arse in the next round.”_

**

It is kind of nice, having a friend similar in age and sexual orientation in the know; to get a different perspective on things that he wouldn’t otherwise have on relationships. An objective point of view. He scrolls past a picture of Mycroft eating a chicken gyros wrap, stuffed to the brim with meat, vegetables and crispy fries (the secret ingredient) with garlicy tzatziki smeared all over his mouth while sitting on a comfortable looking rock. Sherlock had been tempted to lick the creamy white cucumber sauce off his brother’s chin and lips, but he hadn’t had the courage then there. After their breakfast of wraps, they had roamed the narrow streets of _Chora_. It had taken Sherlock half an hour to slip his hand into Mycroft’s. Nothing had ever felt more natural and right.

He finds a picture of himself standing in one of the whimsical alleys, hemmed in by vigorously whitewashed walls and bright blue doors and windowsills. Even the paved ground is coated liberally with the same brilliantly white limestone plaster to seal the cracks between the stones. There’s a slight but serene smile on his face and a strange, soft look in his eyes; an affectionate glance only for the photographer. God. Is this what he looks like when he is watching Mycroft? Small wonder that anyone didn’t know that they were more than brothers. He sends the picture to Marshall, before scrolling to his favourite photo.

Balcony. Rails painted in an intense blue. Elegant shutters. Flowers. Mycroft. Himself. Kissing. In broad daylight. A passerby with some talent for photography had taken the picture for them, after they had been fooling around with the selfie stick that Marshall had given Sherlock before they had left. A dangerous and most compromising photograph. He is amazed that Mycroft had even permitted such a thing to be taken. It is a photograph that Sherlock would have loved to save as a background for his phone. Instead, he looks at it once more, before deleting it from his phone – knowing that a precious copy of it is saved somewhere in the universe. If Mycroft doesn’t, Sherlock will print and frame a large version of the photo and hang it in their bedroom when they return.

_Damn, it’s gorgeous. You look happy. And in love. Wish I was there… instead of dealing with these damned patients… ZW_

_Third-wheeling is not on. SH_

_True. I would need to bring insulin and the Zofran. So… which one of us won the bet? ZW_

_You did. Damn it. I didn’t think he would be THAT sentimental. SH_

_Damn… I would have paid to see it. Rose petals? ZW_

_Carnations. SH_

_Shit. Probably did the whole honeymoon shebang. That’s what I figured, anyways. He seemed the type. ZW_

_You aren’t wrong. SH_

_So, when do I get paid? ZW_

_What do you want? SH_

_Hm… When you get back, my mother has this horrendous party. Would you kindly be my plus-one and get those nasty questions about marriage and children off my back, please? ZW_

_If I have to listen to one more question about when I am going to go settle down with a nice girl, I am going to kill someone. ZW_

_Don’t they know you love cock? SH_

_Ah, the perks of growing up with Asian conservatism. ZW_

_They all think it’s a cute phase. ZW_

_Pity. SH_

_I hope you are deleting the texts. SH_

_I did. I won’t joke around with that. ZW_

.

.

Walking back to the beach, Mycroft carries a tray bearing two cocktails and a plate with two skewers of assorted cuts of seafood. He feels rather naked, wearing a loose short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, a pair of swimming trunks and sandals. He sighs, when he sees that Sherlock is texting Marshall again.

“Mojito for you – dear, and a Sex on the Beach for me.” Mycroft hands Sherlock a drink under the shade of his parasol. The smell of sunscreen is strong on his brother, who like him does not handle the sun well. “And, you’ve been texting other men again, darling?”

“For the premium we paid for the privilege of lying here, you would think that they would have brought the drinks themselves?” Sherlock says amusedly, ignoring his question. But he puts his phone away, signaling to Mycroft that his attention was all his.

“Ah, I live to serve, lover mine.” Mycroft smiles at the pale form of his brother, who is still clad in a short-sleeved grey shirt and a pair of shorts. He knows that the shirt isn’t coming off anytime soon, Sherlock abhors people staring at his scars. Hell, it had taken a lot of coaxing to convince Sherlock to leave the light on during the first time they had made love together. That had both surprised and saddened him – considering how his brother had enjoyed flaunting his nakedness before he had left to dismantle Moriarty’s network. And, it’s a pity, because his brother likes to swim and frolic in the water like everyone else.

“Are you also providing the Sex on the Beach, or is that meant to be a tease?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow at Mycroft’s peach-coloured drink.

“Unless you want to be written up for public indecency, yes it’s meant to be a tease.” Mycroft reaches down to ruffle at Sherlock’s hair, which is stiffened with hairspray.

“Can I have a kiss then?” Sherlock asks instead, and Mycroft sets the tray down on the table in between their loungers, kneels down on the impossibly soft sand and pecks his brother on the lips. Sherlock sighs happily when they break apart. He inquires. “Are you going to go swim?”

“No, not if you aren’t going.” Mycroft says firmly. “There will be less public opportunities to take a dip in the Aegean later, darling.”

“Don’t hold back on account of me. I can handle being by myself.”

“I know. But I would rather be with you, gorgeous creature.” Mycroft lets his fingers caress one of his brother’s lovely cheekbones, before leaning forward to reverently kiss it.

.

.

“Damn, I don’t think there are any legitimate moves left…” Sherlock scrutinizes the precarious tower, made out of large colourful Jenga blocks. The die that his brother had rolled had shown blue, and all the blue blocks are currently located in positions important to the tower’s structural integrity.

The two dark-haired children, Flavian and Isidore, playing with them look on rapt as Mycroft contemplates his options. They are twins, the children of their talented hostess and chef for the evening, who possess nimble fingers and steady hands, making them worthy opponents for such a game.

“Ye of little faith, lover mine.” Mycroft grins while his blue eyes brim with mischief. “How about… I remove these two blue blocks at the bottom – hm? Would you count that as a valid move?”

Sherlock shrugs carelessly, secretly delighted with the revelation of Mycroft’s playful side. “Well, you have nothing to lose, My.”

“And everything to gain. Watch, children – for this is why you should never give up.” Mycroft says in this all-knowing manner of his, which had served to piss off Sherlock to no end when he had been younger and less wise. Now he just finds it hot.

They all watch as Mycroft carefully works each block so that only their edges supported the full weight of the tower. “Well…” Mycroft says dramatically. “On a count of three…”

Sherlock finds himself and the children counting, “One, two… three!”

His brother takes a deep breath, and with an abrupt motion, he pulls the two blocks out. There is loud thud as the tower drops and lands on the next two blocks. The blocks on the top teeter unstably, but nevertheless, the move is clean. Flavian and Isidore scream in excitement and clap, while Sherlock suddenly has the urge to have his brother against a flat surface. And then he gulps, realizing that it is his turn after Mycroft had delicately placed his blocks on the top.

“Your move, darling.” Mycroft leans back comfortably on his chair.

The odds are certainly not great. Sherlock rolls the die, which lands on a red… and yup – he’s fucked…

.

.

Mycroft wanders about the whitewashed living room of their hostess’ house. This is absurd. After Sherlock had predictably knocked over the blocks, the ten-year-old Flavian had insisted on playing hide-and-seek. So, Mycroft had inanely counted to a hundred, turned around and found that everyone had vanished. He scans the room, noting that nothing had been disturbed. No one is hidden behind the curtains framing the red-painted windowsill. Besides white, the houses of Mykonos can be painted red, blue or green. Blue for sailors, green for farmers and red for everyone else, based on the old traditions.

Giving up the living room, Mycroft walks into the next room – a cozy study. A cat – a calico – springs down from the desk, weaves between Mycroft’s legs and dashes out of the room. Astoria. Isidore had mentioned the family pet earlier. A slight giggle causes Mycroft to freeze.

“Isidore.” He says to the seemingly empty room, before turning his attention to the space between the door and the wall where the child is hidden. “I see you.”

“Ack! You found me!” The raven-haired girl sounds disappointed.

“Come on, let’s go find the others.” Mycroft heads back out to the living room.

They head upstairs. Mycroft had heard the creaking of stairs while he had been counting, although he isn’t a hundred percent sure if Sherlock had climbed the stairs partially and went back down to trick him. There is no sign of his brother up here, although they find Flavian hidden in the laundry hamper full of dirty clothes. Isidore then sniffs her brother and makes a face – complaining that he smells nasty. They go back downstairs and check the kitchen, where their apron attired hostess is busy making their dinner.

“Ah, hide-and-seek again?”

“Mama, have you seen Scott?”

The lady’s eyes seem to twinkle for a second before saying “No.” with a strange smile.

Ah, so the rascal is somewhere here. Mycroft hunts around the kitchen, although there aren’t many spots to hide here, but he finds no trace of his brother. He consults the rudimentary map that he had made of the house during the game, trying to see if he’s missed any obvious spots.

“My! My!” Isidore exclaims. “Sh… Look.”

The child directs Mycroft to stand at a certain spot, and Mycroft could see that his brother is standing outside against the section of wall between the window and the sliding door leading to the terrace. Hm… Didn’t they agree that they would hide indoors? Ah, this is the man he loves – always the impertinent smasher of rules!

Carefully, Mycroft walks over to the sliding door and pulls it a crack open.

“You are a naughty boy, lover mine.”

“Only for you, My.” Sherlock smirks, tilting his head towards Mycroft. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do? Darling. I really ought to spank you.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Sherlock’s eyes are brimming with mischief.

“Spank him, My!” Isidore exclaims mercilessly.

Their eyes catch and they both break out in helpless laughter.

Sherlock winks at him. “You will have to catch me.” And he scampers off.

Mycroft runs out after him. His brother doesn’t get far though – having run himself into a dead end at the side of the house. The look of delight in Sherlock’s eyes at the moment of his capture suggest that this entire sequence had been choreographed beforehand. Pinning his lover against the white wall, Mycroft turns his head to make sure that the children hadn’t followed before proceeding to snog the living daylights out of his brother.

.

.

“Will you actually spank me?” Sherlock asks as he cuts up his exquisitely grilled swordfish.

“Dearest…” Mycroft puts down his wineglass. “You’ve been hurt physically enough times in your life. I don’t wish to add to that.”

“What if I wanted it?” Spearing a piece of fish, Sherlock places the tender morsel in his mouth. God… it is to die for.

“Then we can try…” Mycroft sounds hesitant.

“I don’t want to make you do anything that you don’t want to do, lover mine.”

“If it brings you pleasure, mon amour, then who am I to say no?”

“You’ve thought about it though. Spanking my arse.”

Mycroft looks guilty. “Yes. I’ve thought about it on several occasions. Even before we were… together.”

“Buckingham.” Sherlock grimaces. Yes, he had been right – his plan to irritate his brother had spectacularly backfired – no doubt serving as wank fodder when Mycroft had realized the true nature of his feelings. One of the benefits of being gifted with eidetic memory.

“I should have realized then.” Mycroft helps himself to a freshly baked pita triangle, dipping it generously in the tzatziki sauce that made every other tzatziki sauce that had passed Sherlock’s lips a pale imitation. “My feelings for you.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Sherlock says. “Sherrinford needed to happen for me to return them.” He then adds. “Mycroft, never feel guilty about having kinky thoughts about me. It is flattering. I didn’t lie when I said I wanted to experience everything that you wanted to try in the bedroom at the beginning.”

They feast quietly afterwards, communicating quietly with meaningful looks, facial expressions and a footsie war underneath the table. The non-verbal conversation runs along these lines: _I love you. I can’t believe I am here with you. Are you happy? Yes, I am._ This feels more like a fantasy than reality to Sherlock, dining as lovers on this private terrace looking out into the Aegean, while enjoying the full glory of the sunset. Here they are Mike and Scott – just in case people still remember the tabloids from the past. But despite not using their names, they are at last free to be themselves here in this paradise without needing to hide their love in dark discreet corners.

.

.

“I want to learn how to master all of Paganini’s caprices before I die.” Sherlock says as he walks hand-in-hand with Mycroft along the seashore.

“An ambitious project.” Mycroft replies, content and sated from dinner. He will be dreaming about this culinary masterpiece for years. “Your playing has changed.”

After the scrumptious dinner, Flavian had brought out his violin and played a few simple pieces, before Sherlock had taken the instrument from the boy. Mycroft had watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock’s lovely fingers – so long, elegant and masculine – fiddle with the tuning pegs of the violin before setting the rest under his chin. His brother had warmed up with scales and Mycroft could tell that Sherlock had took his time with each note – scoping out the quality of the tone that he could milk from the instrument. It had been no Strad, but it was adequate under the circumstances.

The dramatic bars of one of Paganini’s caprices – Opus 1, number 5, the one in a-minor – had filled the air. It had been ages since Mycroft had heard his brother play by himself, and he had almost forgotten how good Sherlock is. Eurus had been technically flawless, but his brother had always played with heart – even during the years where he had claimed that he didn’t have one. And then, for his benefit, Sherlock had played Chopin’s Nocturne in c-sharp minor with _Spotify_ providing the piano accompaniment. There had always been something hauntingly beautiful about that particular work to Mycroft. And at the end, the children had requested a picture with them both – it had been a surprisingly enjoyable evening.

“Has it?” Sherlock asks. “You’ve mentioned to me once that my playing was a window into my soul.”

“It sounds cliché, brother – but your playing feels more raw. And thank you for the nocturne. It is my favourite.” When he gets back to London, Mycroft plans to dig out his old music and relearn how to play the nocturne himself on the piano. And if Sherlock would allow it – they could do duets again, like they had done as children.

“Anytime.” Sherlock smiles.

“Shall we head back?” Mycroft asks, noting that there are only a few tendrils of twilight left as the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon.

“Don’t you want to see the starlight?” Sherlock replies, surprisingly. And then he stops, and says with a burning intensity, “Brother mine, I don’t want this day to end.”

“We still have weeks, darling.” Mycroft reminds him. “But I can humour you and stay – if that’s what you want.” He leans forward and kisses his brother’s plush lips.

“Everything feels like a fantasy… It feels like that at some point I will wake up and find that none of this is real.” Sherlock whispers after they break the kiss.

“It’s very real, brother.” Mycroft takes one of Sherlock’s hands and places it against his chest – just anterior to his heart. Sherlock takes a step forward and tilts his head slightly, causing their foreheads to meet. Their bodies seem to sway to an intrinsic beat. Without even being aware of it at first, Mycroft finds himself leading Sherlock in a waltz. There is something thrilling about dancing next to the sea, their feet gliding over sea-smoothed sand; their only musical accompaniment being the sounds of nature. Sherlock dances with what Mycroft would describe as a savage joy, pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable in the rigid structure; his eyes sparkling with an adoration and a delight that Mycroft hopes will stay till the end of their days. They are as brilliant as Sherlock’s anticipated starlight, which are beginning to shine brightly in the heavens above them. The sea waves crash ashore, wetting their feet – but it doesn’t cause them to falter one bit. When the imaginary music that they are dancing to appears to come to an end, Mycroft dips his brother in an exaggerated fashion – causing them both to stumble into the moonlit sea amidst their own carefree laughter.


	19. Chapter 19

It is quiet here. On this pile of rocks in the middle of the Aegean Sea. This is Delos; an island that boasts of no resources the Ancients would have found useful. No food. No timber. Limited water. But there is _something_ about this island though.

It is, to quote Callimachus – an Alexandrian scholar when Ptolemaic Egypt was still relevant, _“the most sacred of all islands.”_ It is the birthplace of the twins. Sun and Moon. Apollo and Artemis.

A long time ago, 167 BC to be exact, it became a hub of all commercial activity in the Eastern Mediterranean. The most prosperous of men – the merchants, bankers and shipowners – from all around the world flocked to Delos and built luxurious houses and temples with elaborate frescoes and mosaics. By the second century AD, it was the greatest commercial centre in the entire world.

But now… ruins and rubble remain. An archaeological site. The fall of civilizations. Nothing is forever.

Sherlock sits alone at the top of the theatre – a mess of jumbled stones – looking down at the stage below. What kind of stories unfolded here all those years ago? Tales of human courage and tragedy. Comedy. Maybe even forbidden love. He feels like a protagonist in a play. Maybe a tragedy. It certainly feels like one right now. His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, but he ignores it. It’s one of the MHs in his life. Mycroft or Marshall.

Today is supposed to be their last full day in Mykonos. For the lack of a better phrase, he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Or, if John was being fanciful, he would refer to these spells as the day when the black dog visits. Depression. He has never met the clinical criteria for full on Major Depressive Disorder, but his symptoms come and go. Ever since Mycroft and he had gotten together, they had disappeared altogether. But it seems now, that the reprieve was only temporary. These are the days when he wants to viciously stab something, shoot the walls, blow something up or engage in some other self-destructive tendency. Mycroft had sensed Sherlock’s mood as soon as he had gotten up and had wisely given him a wide berth.

**

_“Did you have to bring your laptop to breakfast?” Sherlock asks, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice, as he picks at his omelet of sausage and potato._

_“Sorry, brother mine – a minor emergency.” Mycroft is apologetic as his fingers type rapidly. “Anthea just texted me a few minutes ago. Give me ten minutes.”_

_Even in Mediterranean paradise, his brother is still putting out smoldering embers in England. Mycroft will always be shackled to Queen and Country. They are sitting in the backyard of their villa. As brightly the sun shines over them, Sherlock feels as equally dejected; he is left to stew in his own thoughts. Halfheartedly, he nibbles at a bread stick._

_It takes twenty minutes before Mycroft finally closes his laptop and sets it aside on their stone table. He grabs one of the breadsticks and a slice of locally made graviera and bites into both with a relish._

_“If you weren’t working for the British government, brother – what would you be doing instead – for a job?” Sherlock finds himself asking moments later._

_It takes Mycroft forever to answer the question. He sighs contemplatively. “To be honest, darling. I have no idea.”_

_Somehow the answer just simply depresses Sherlock further. Even he had thought about alternative jobs that he could possibly do besides being a consulting detective. He could make a living by being a professional poker player, a violinist or even a researcher. Granted, none of these jobs are likely to hold his interest beyond a year – but it is still something. Sherlock realizes at this moment why he is upset at his brother’s answer. Now that they’ve had the taste of this – of what being together feels like – how could they ever go back to how things were back in London? And it was Mycroft who had proposed the idea of potentially leaving England when he had returned from his trip last month. But this is evidence that Mycroft hasn’t thought too far into that. Words are easy and cheap. Suddenly, Sherlock has a desire to be anywhere but here. He pushes his chair back and stands up._

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Out.” Sherlock replies curtly before dashing back into the villa, before Mycroft could say another word._

**

So, like the drama queen he is – he had ran away to another island. Granted, it is only a thirty-minute journey away from Mykonos, but still. He winces. It sounds pathetic now. But, perhaps – it is unfair for Sherlock to ask his brother to choose between his job and him. He knows that Mycroft takes a certain pride in his shadowy profession. His brother is already risking so much by taking on Sherlock as a lover. God. He is a selfish brat. And some part of him is terrified that Mycroft would decide that this isn’t worth it; Sherlock knows he is a difficult person to deal with. Today being a primary example of such. A tear courses down his cheek. He doesn’t think he can live without Mycroft. Now that he has tasted this. What it feels like to be in love with and to be loved by his favourite person in this entire world.

**

_“Mycroft!” Sherlock cries out in laughter when his brother dips him at the end of their impromptu waltz at the shore. When Mycroft puts him down, Sherlock stumbles and inadvertently drags his lover into the sea. They collapse into the waves in gales of helpless hysterics, wrapped in each other; two lunatics in love under the moon and starlit skies._

**

Despite the sun, Sherlock shivers in the memory. The water combined with the evening winds had been cold, but his heart had never felt so warm; he had never felt so happy. And even happy was an inadequate descriptor. And since that magical evening, happy days had followed. They had gone beach-hopping (they had eventually found a deserted stretch of sea for Sherlock to swim in), participated in a casual pairs beach volleyball tournament (semi-finals!), went scuba diving (where they explored a sunken ship surrounded by beautiful coral reefs), rented a sailboat to sail around the island and to check out the yachts belonging to the billionaires anchored out in the Aegean (Mycroft knew how to sail for some reason), went to an exclusive beach club to party (but really Mycroft and he had spent the entire time deducing the other clubbers and celebrities while drinking ridiculously named cocktails) and went horseback riding along the shore (a throwback to childhood) amongst other things. They had far more sex than John had on his sex holiday with Mary in Brighton. Damn. He is an idiot. What is he doing here alone on this island when he could be with his lover? But he feels deeply ashamed. Reluctantly, he pulls out his phone.

There are texts and missed calls from both Mycroft and Marshall – as he had figured. He looks at Marshall’s first.

_Sherlock. ZW_

_Can you please text or call your other half? ZW_

_I don’t want to be the middleman in your relationship. ZW_

_I have to be in the OR in five. ZW_

_Seriously. Please text him. ZW_

_He’s really worried. ZW_

Guilt sets in. Sherlock realizes that Mycroft has no idea where he is. Their phones have the GPS trackers disabled for this vacation. With trepidation, he opens his brother’s texts.

_Lover mine, where are you? MH_

_I understand that you are upset and need space – Sherlock. But please let me know that you are safe. MH_

_I love you. MH_

_Please, brother dear. MH_

_Reply to me. Or pick up your phone. MH_

_I am worried about you, dearest. MH_

_At least let me know where you are. MH_

There are more frantic texts from his brother that follow the same vein. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock composes a text.

_I am at Delos, Mycroft. I am sorry. SH_

_Your brother is an idiot. SH_

The response is immediate.

_Sherlock! MH_

_No, my brother is not an idiot. He may be beautiful, brilliant and prone to moodiness – but idiocy is not an attribute of his. MH_

_Selfish too. SH_

_Oh… Sherlock – we will talk. MH_

That sounds ominous. With fear, Sherlock types.

_You aren’t breaking up with me, are you? SH_

_No! Of course not. God. Sherlock. I will always want you. Never doubt that. MH_

_Should I come to Delos? MH_

_No, brother. Meet me at Kastro’s Bar in Little Venice at 6? I just made a reservation under Mike Holmes. SH_

_Sunset and drinks. Sounds like a nice way to say goodbye to Mykonos. MH_

_I will see you then. SH_

.

.

It is with no small worry that Mycroft arrives at Kastro’s minutes before the appointed time. He is seated on a bench hewn in stone and covered with a plump cushion in a quaint alleyway looking out into the sea by a jolly looking server. Sherlock isn’t here yet. The old fears plague him – as they had done all day – of kidnappings, drugs, drownings, fights and etcetera. His fingers itch to fire away a text, but he reaches for the menu instead. Three more minutes till six.

His eyes widen when he catches sight of his brother two minutes later. For once, he feels underdressed. Sherlock strides towards the table in a delectable white suit that Mycroft has never seen him wear before. With a tie and matching pocket square.

“You were not wearing that when you left this morning…”

.

.

“I went back to the villa when you went out, lover mine.” Sherlock explains.

His brother looks exhausted; looking every inch like a man in his mid-forties in a dark short-sleeved shirt. Contritely, Sherlock sits down across from Mycroft in the wooden chair. He wants to apologize, but any words that come to mind seem woefully inadequate. In the old days, Mycroft would lecture, but Sherlock knows that there is none forthcoming.

“I am glad you are safe, dear.” Mycroft says instead. “You know…”

“That you worry constantly.” Sherlock finishes. “I – I…”

“Am an idiot?” Mycroft offers a smirk, attempting to lighten the mood.

“That I am.” Sherlock smiles slightly. He then sighs. “I just felt… out of sorts. I haven’t felt like that… in a long time.”

“Your moods.” Mycroft says with utmost seriousness. “I know, darling. A day for hiding under pillow forts. Where everything feels wrong. Where you want to shoot the walls.”

At this, they both smile.

The waiter shows up, and they order their drinks and food.

“You skipped lunch.” Mycroft states.

“I did.” Sherlock nods. He then says. “So, did you.”

“Dearest… you know I would happily hide under the pillow fort with you. Just…” Mycroft swallows visibly.

“Don’t go where you cannot follow.” Sherlock takes a sip from the glass of water to clear his throat. “I won’t. Never again.”

.

.

“You look delicious in that suit.” Mycroft eyes Sherlock. It is a bespoke suit – Saville Row. His brother had it made recently. “Tastier than my sea bass.”

“Oh?” Sherlock plays dumb, while stabbing a piece of his lobster.

“I look forward to removing it from you.” Mycroft winks. “Piece by piece.”

“Damn, and you were trying to get me into suits and ties and everything for most of my life. And now you want me out of them?”

“I do like unwrapping presents, lover mine.” Mycroft smiles. “I want my dessert. And I want it… soon.”

“God, we ordered dessert too, brother…” There is a longing look in Sherlock’s eyes, which bodes well for the rest of the evening.

“Ah, but darling, anticipation is the soul of enjoyment.” Mycroft permits a hand to rest on Sherlock’s knee.

“Bor-ing.” Sherlock replies flippantly, causing Mycroft to laugh.

.

.

“Mm… brother – what are you doing?” Mycroft asks when Sherlock drags him into a secluded alleyway.

“Deduce it.” Sherlock presses him against a white-washed wall and starts kissing him with fervor. “I want you, Mycroft.”

God. Not here. In public. Mycroft sighs when Sherlock sucks at that perfect spot on his neck – letting his teeth graze the skin – undoubtedly leaving a mark. His brother’s hands run up and down his sensitive sides, and just as Sherlock is about to kneel down, Mycroft says sternly. “Don’t you dare get that suit dirty. Allow me.”

Instead, he kneels down – in his jeans, and carefully unwraps his brother’s cock. He takes the prick into his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around the glans – appreciating the moans that Sherlock cannot quite suppress. He lets his hands knead at his brother’s generous arse, before taking in as much as Sherlock’s cock as he can. Applying suction, he grunts around Sherlock’s member when one of his brother’s hands reaches down to grab at his hair – pulling it pleasurably. Two tugs signify that Sherlock is close, and Mycroft presses a finger against his brother’s perineum and massages – his brother lets out a muffled cry – spilling the anticipated dessert straight into Mycroft’s mouth.

“Thank you…” Sherlock is breathless. “I’ve always wanted public sex.”

“Anytime.”

“What about you?” Sherlock tucks his cock back into his pants and trousers.

“I can wait, lover mine.” Mycroft replies.

“You always indulge me.” Sherlock smiles brightly as he grabs his brother’s hand to walk towards the harbor, where the fierce Aegean sun is disappearing quickly. There is almost a skip to his brother’s steps – reminding Mycroft of the happy little boy he had been before Eurus had gone off the deep end.

“I love you. Very much.” Mycroft stops Sherlock as they stand adjacent to the sea, on the rocks. He turns his head and kisses his brother. “And I will always indulge you and spoil you – you gorgeous creature. Nothing will separate us. And, I thought about it…”

“Thought about what?” Sherlock asks, curious.

“You asked me earlier – about alternative professions. Before you stormed off. I could be a lawyer, a professor – maybe even a chef. I like cooking.”

“Cooking is rather stressful, lover mine.” Sherlock replies, “I was thinking, maybe we could go hustle some casinos together or something – you know.”

“You mean, use our powers for evil?” Mycroft is amused.

“For fun!” Sherlock grins. “Just one or two, and then we can do something else. No one would see us coming. Although… I do relish you being a professor, darling. Or should I say – Professor Holmes. You could fuck student-me in your office.”

“Naughty boy!” Mycroft exclaims, very much enjoying the fantasy.

“The naughtiest!” Sherlock agrees, readily.

And then Mycroft turns to Sherlock again and gives him another adoring peck, before they start walking back to their villa for the last time.

It really doesn’t get better than this. And Mycroft, like Sherlock, knows that it will be very difficult to resume their day-to-day lives once they return back to London. But then again, there is no need to spoil their holidays with these gloomy thoughts.

For tomorrow, Santorini awaits.


	20. Chapter 20

_The ferry was ghastly! SH_

_Was it really? ZW_

_Full of goldfish – or rather landlubbers without sea legs. SH_

_Imagine it. Retching. Vomit. Everywhere. SH_

_I told him we should have flown. SH_

_Should have made them all walk the plank, your highness. ZW_

_Avast ye, scurvy cur! Ye would be first t’ go down me plank! SH_

_That sounds… strangely suggestive. ZW_

_Speaking of suggestive… guess who I saw at a bar yesterday! ZW_

_Considering how many acquaintances that we have in common, the list is very narrow. SH_

_I would say that you are speaking of John. SH_

_Is it some insipid female again? SH_

_Ha! He was wearing that blue shirt of his. You know which one! But no, his companion for the evening was certainly not female. ZW_

_He didn’t notice me at all. ZW_

_So, I stayed and watched the show. ZW_

_Was there a show? SH_

_No. But they left together. ZW_

_He looked a bit like you. Nice cheekbones. Curly hair. Generous bottom. Tall. ZW_

_Wears spectacles. A bit bookish – I would say he’s a professor or an editor of some sort. ZW_

_Dresses well. Certainly, better than John! ZW_

_That, Marshall, is a deplorable standard. SH_

_Well, that’s why he’s bi and not gay. ZW_

_Not all gay men are capable of dressing well! SH_

_It was a silly attempt at a jest – you goose! ZW_

_Context is difficult to infer with texting. SH_

_A true modern-day peril, indeed. ZW_

Sherlock hardly looks up when two large hands grasp his shoulders. Mycroft. A nose tickles a shorn side of his undercut. He takes a shuddering breath. It is irrational how much he still wants after all this time.

“Mycroft…” It comes out weak. Maybe a tad needy.

“Dearest…” Mycroft whispers, his breath caressing his sensitive scalp and the tip of this ear. It sends electrifying shivers down Sherlock’s nerves. “I want you.”

“Ngghhh!” He gasps – as Mycroft deliberately bites down on sensitive flesh.

His brother chuckles. “Shall we christen the bed, brother mine?”

“Mm… too comfortable to get up.”

There is a deep sigh of exasperation before Sherlock lets out a little yelp when Mycroft bodily picks him up from the sofa he is currently curled up on and carries him to the fancily-made bed a few steps away. So strong. His lover. Sherlock muses – but then again, Mycroft had made a career out of carrying Sherlock out of trouble. And, Sherlock had never thanked him for it – but rather had given him a lot of grief over it. His brother. His protector. Instead, when Mycroft gently lowers Sherlock onto their bed – Sherlock says simply. “I love you.”

It is intriguing, how three little words can mean so much; how the meaning of these simple words can change depending on the context of how it is said. Mycroft’s eyes widen – his pupils are already dilated with arousal – but Sherlock know his message is conveyed. _Thank you, for always being there. For never giving up on me. My only constant. My only love. Dearest._ His brother pounces upon him, ever so agile – so graceful; so fucking handsome. His knees straddle Sherlock’s thighs. _Possessive. Mine._ His brother’s eyes glint, before Mycroft lowers himself carefully over Sherlock, so close that he can feel his lover’s breath on his skin – propping his elbows on the bed. Their noses brush. Gently. Tenderly.

“Brother _mine._ ” Hands are undoing Sherlock’s shirt, exposing his flesh to the air-conditioned room.

“Lover _mine_.” Soft lips caress Sherlock’s, slowly tracing the contours of his cupid’s bow, before a tongue licks ever so delicately into his mouth – so tender that it physically aches. Deft fingers work at his jeans, freeing his desperately hard cock from its denim confines.

“Darling _mine_.” A loud groan escapes Sherlock when a hot, slick and tight heat engulfs his glans. His brain almost shuts down due to the sensation. God. The incredible tightness of that familiar ring of muscle. Mycroft takes his prick in slowly – slowly undulating, taking in more and more with each oscillation – savouring the pleasure of penetration like the finest of wines. Fuck. It’s been too long since Sherlock had been on this end of things; ever since Mycroft’s return, he had behaved like a rather needy bottom. And his brother had indulged him, as always.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines.

He wants more. He needs more.

“Always so greedy. So needy. “ Mycroft smiles at him, despite his own breathy pants. But his brother, his lover, maintains this painfully slow pace, his knees holding Sherlock’s thighs in a vicelike grip. “My gorgeous darling.”

“God, you feel so good…” Sherlock gasps, reaching over to press against Mycroft’s bum, causing his lover to scrunch up his eyes in pleasure – and to encourage him to pick up the pace. “Fuck. Mycroft. More. Damn it!” He pants, as Mycroft’s own hand reaches down to frig his own leaking cock. By the fracturing of Mycroft’s rhythm some time later, Sherlock knows that his brother is close. He cranes his neck upwards and demands – although it comes out breathless, “Give it to me!”

Spurts of cum land on Sherlock’s chest and some even manage to land on his face. He grunts when he ejaculates deep into Mycroft – and he falls back sated, absolutely destroyed by the intensity of his own orgasm. His brother collapses, or rather – falls in a controlled manner – against Sherlock’s torso.

His brother grins fondly when Sherlock uses his tongue to lap at the cum that had managed to hit his face. “Nasty boy.”

“Your nasty boy.” Sherlock murmurs.

“Mine.” Mycroft snuggles closer.

“You are mine, too.” Sherlock adds. “Brother _mine_.”

Mycroft simply leans closer and brushes a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead.

“Shower?”

“Mm… Don’t leave me yet…”

“I want to go see the sunset. And grab a snack. Maybe from that yogurt place we saw on the way here.”

“We have plenty of time, Mycroft.”

“It’s not enough.”

Their eyes meet.

_It will never be enough._

.

.

The days pass all too quickly.

On the last evening, they decide to stay in – lying on their fronts on the loungers from their private terrace – high up on the hillside village of Oia. Mycroft had left his phone in their suite; he knows Sherlock had left his as well – next to the lamp on the nightstand in their bedroom. They are happy to lie in a mutual companionable silence – viewing the picturesque village spread below them from their lofty perch. The brilliant Santorini sun will set. Night will pass. And – they will soon be flying back to London the next day. His brother twitches next to him, as if suppressing an urge to turn towards him and to shatter the silence. Mycroft imagines the words his brother wishes to say would be along the lines of _fuck it – let’s stay here forever._

So, he breaks it instead. “Little brother…” He turns to look at Sherlock. Tenderly. “There is a case that needs attention…”

There is a confused and slightly mutinous look that flits across his beloved’s face.

“A month from now. It shall require a week or two of our time. I haven’t determined yet the best location for our investigation…”

He can see the moment of understanding; the _‘oh’_. His brother speaks – with surprised pleasure, “I would be delighted… to consult for your case.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft beams at him. And then his voice grows serious. “Sherlock… I know you’ve been entertaining the fantasy of leaving everything behind… and starting anew.”

“You brought it up. I didn’t even know that it was a possibility…” Sherlock admits. “A month ago… I never dare dreamed…” He then says earnestly, “Mycroft – I would do anything for you. You know that. Even if we stay in London for the rest of our lives. I wouldn’t be the happiest…” He shrugs. “But I would have you. And, that’s all I really want.”

At the end of the day, Mycroft wants Sherlock to be happy and safe. Being allowed to love him like this was a privilege that Mycroft had never thought he could have back then – especially back in those dark days when he had initially discerned the true nature of his feelings for his brother.

“I want you to be sure. That this is what you actually want. If you want us to leave London and not look back. If this is worth sacrificing everything for. Sherlock… you will have to give up your career, your friends – and everything else.”

“Mycroft…”

“Wait, hear me out, dearest. There are other options. We can continue living as we are – and do more cases abroad. I can take a step back from my job – it would be an easy justification – I am getting older, there are other things I want to do with my life and the constant stress isn’t healthy. And – Sherlock – Dr. Watson will eventually find someone and eventually leave your flat. In a year or two, I will retire, and we can leave England without any theatrics – as dramatic as we love to be, brother mine.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock tries again, leaning forward – his eyes shining with something that Mycroft cannot quite interpret. “I just wanted to say that I am an idiot. Of course – you thought about this. You probably have contingency plans on top of contingency plans.”

“Silly boy.” Mycroft says fondly. “Just as you would do anything for me; I would do anything for you. Never doubt that.” He then adds. “There is no need to make any decisions at the moment.”

“Brother. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” Sherlock asks.

“I am an egoist – brother – do tell me more.” Mycroft smirks.

Sherlock leans forward to brush his lips against Mycroft’s.

“Let me show you instead, lover mine.”

.

.

** 221B Baker Street **

“I see that you are back!” John exclaims brightly, just as Sherlock drags his luggage to his living room and flops down on the couch – exhausted.

“Evidently.” Sherlock stares up at the ceiling. He acutely misses Mycroft’s presence already, even though he had just said goodbye to him at the curb barely a handful of minutes ago.

“You are… tanned!” John, of course, enjoys saying the obvious. “Oh... and nice hair! Somewhere tropical then? Maybe the beach.”

“Mm… John – you know I can’t say anything about these cases. Top secret.”

“I will take that as a yes.” John is in an excellent mood. Nice shirt. Fresh haircut. New cologne. Recently gotten laid. Maybe in the morning. Non-penetrative. Partner has a cat. Siamese.

“Where’s Rosie?” Sherlock asks.

“With Molly. I was with – no, I had errands to run today.” John corrects himself quickly.

Sherlock snickers. “Is that what we are calling it these days? Errands? Surely, John – I do recall that I owe _you_ an interrogation.”

John sighs, capitulating. He knows that he has lost. “Fine, I was seeing Alan this morning.” He looks pleadingly, “Please don’t scare him off. I actually do like him.”

“Mm… Curly hair? Nice bottom? Taller than you? Bookish? Professor of some sort? Mr. Cheekbones?”

“What the hell?” John looks astonished. “You are taking the piss – aren’t you? Care to walk me through that – Mr. Detective?”

“Ah, ah – ah! A magician never gives away his secrets.

“Bloody hell – you and Marshall have been gossiping… Should have figured. And you are one to talk about cheekbones…” John sighs again – with exasperation.

“So, John…” Sherlock sits up, adopting one of his thinking poses. With solemnity, he asks, “Do you top or bottom?”

“Piss off!” John flushes – the shade is rather similar to a ripe tomato.

Sherlock merely grins. Ah, truly what goes around, comes around. The answer is neither. They haven’t explored that aspect of sex yet. If they ever will. Not every gay couple has penetrative intercourse. But alas – it’s time to move this conversation along. “I take it that you want to ask me along to dinner at the usual Chinese – but what you really want to do is go to Alan’s. It’s alright – just go. I understand – honeymoon period.” He throws in a knowing wink.

“God, one serious relationship – and you are an expert!” John shakes his head.

Ah, if only you knew – John.

“I am a fast learner. You know that.” Sherlock offers a smile. “Now – go!”

“You aren’t going to text me with something ridiculous halfway through dinner, aren’t you?” John asks suspiciously.

“Just go!” Sherlock waves dismissively. “The meatballs will be getting cold.”

John gives him one more incredulous look before finally leaving.

Sherlock snickers as the door closes. John. So easy to rile up.

_You busy tonight? SH_

_Socrates injured his leg this morning. Accident. ZW_

_Serious? SH_

_No, vet said it would heal on its own. ZW_

_Poor boy. SH_

_Indeed. Spoiling him today. ZW_

_What about your man? ZW_

_He went straight to the office after he dropped me off. SH_

_I could eat dinner with you – then head over to his. SH_

_Sounds like a plan! Any preference? ZW_

_Anything is good. SH_

_Oh, then we can just eat leftovers that my mum made. Spicy fish stew with those Sichuan peppers. Rice. Bok choy with king oyster mushrooms. ZW_

_Spoiled boy. SH_

_You are one to talk. You got Mrs. H and your other half. And me. ZW_

_Touché. SH_

_But I will be there to feast! SH_

_Oh, btw – I showed a picture of me and you to my mum yesterday. ZW_

_What did she say? SH_

_Called you a handsome British boy. ZW_

_I am flattered. SH_

.

.

_I miss you. SH_

_As absurd it sounds. SH_

_It feels like Santorini was a lifetime ago. SH_

_I think I better stop texting before I clutter up your phone with romantic drivel. SH_

_Your house is so lonely without you. SH_

_I take it that you are at a meeting. SH_

_I am lying on the bed. It doesn’t smell like you. It is rather… disconcerting. SH_

_Fish stew was amazing. Alan doesn’t look like me at all. Stalked him on Instagram. SH_

_No interesting cases in the inbox. Lestrade actually solved a murder by himself for once. The wife did it. SH_

_Did I tell you that I miss you? SH_

_I feel so empty without you. SH_

_Incomplete. SH_

_The world is so grey without you. SH_

_Dearest. SH_

.

.

_I miss you too. MH_

_It is irrational. MH_

_It defies all logic. MH_

_I wonder if reincarnation is a real phenomenon. MH_

_One human lifetime seems inadequate to share with you. MH_

_Were we eagles dancing in the sky? Dolphins leaping in the sea? Wolves roaming in the forests? MH_

_Star-crossed lovers in another lifetime? MH_

_I can only hope that our shared lifetimes were happy ones. MH_

_I will happily take all your romantic drivel as long as you will happily take mine in return. MH_

_My house isn’t a home unless you are present. MH_

_The meeting was ghastly. The PM seems to grow stupider with every day that passes. MH_

_I wish we could have eaten together. The sandwich Anthea produced was subpar. Let’s have Korean tomorrow. MH_

_I take it that you’ve fallen asleep. MH_

_I will be there when you wake up. MH_

_I still miss you. MH_

_The world is nothing without you. MH_

_Dearest. MH_


	21. Chapter 21

As expected, it is hard to go back to how things were. Sherlock’s own bed back at Baker Street has never felt so lonely; even more so the first night that John had Alan over. John’s date is a pleasant man with a dark variant of sarcastic humour – an editor-in-chief for one of the biggest publishing houses in London – although Sherlock can sense that there are hidden depths to the man that John would find intriguing. His flatmate had cooked; he had made a passable vegetarian lasagna (Alan is a pescatarian) accompanied by acceptable pan-fried salmon fillets while Alan had brought the wine (a high-quality Pinot Gris that Sherlock had approved of). After dinner, Sherlock retreats to his room and lies down on his bed. The voices of John and Alan float through the cracks; a mundane conversation about their respective days.

He turns slightly, his eyes falling upon the empty side of his bed. Mycroft had never shared this bed with him ever. They hadn’t even dared to kiss at Baker Street. Ever since they had been _together_ , Mycroft had only came over once as they had deemed it unwise to spend time together outside of Mycroft’s house. And their fear is justified; after all, the cunning Mrs. Hudson had figured out their secret during that one fateful dinner.

There isn’t anyone he could text either right now. Marshall is on night call this week, no doubt dealing with a litany of nosebleeds and idiots who had things stuck in their ear canals. His lover is in Moscow for the weekend, trying to deal with the PM’s latest gaffe. God. He needs to get out of here. He can already hear the foreplay happening outside in the living room. Soon, they would progress to inevitable coitus in the bedroom upstairs. And if Sherlock remembers correctly, the walls of the flat are woefully thin. It has been a long while since John had brought anyone home.

When he hears the sounds of two men heading up the stairs, Sherlock strategically flees.

.

.

Before he could leave the building though, Mrs. Hudson stops him in his tracks.

“Going out?” She asks – as Sherlock sniffs the air, smelling the enticing scents of Mrs. Hudson’s latest baking creations.

Sherlock fidgets with his hands. He doesn’t even have a destination in mind. He could go to Mycroft’s – and sleep in another lonely bed. There is also the morgue, but he hasn’t set up a single experiment since his return from paradise. He could ask Lestrade out for drinks. The DI is currently dealing with a nasty custody battle with his ex-wife for their two children and could use the distraction. But – that would be deviating from expected behaviour. So, he replies with a shrug, “I don’t know – to be quite honest.”

“Dear, then do come in.” Mrs. Hudson gives him a small smile while opening up her flat door further. “I take it that they are getting frisky upstairs…”

He grimaces. “You are unfortunately correct.”

“I am surprised you didn’t bother to scare them out of the flat. Like you used to – in the old days.” Mrs. Hudson remarks with a teasing grin. “Tea?”

Sherlock nods before sitting down at Mrs. Hudson’s dining table. A steaming mug of tea gets placed in front of him, along with a decadent slice of nutty chocolate cake. Mycroft would love this – Sherlock thinks, as he listlessly picks up the fork and takes a dainty nibble.

“You look sad. Is everything alright?” Mrs. Hudson brings over her own mug and sits down across from him.

“I am okay.” Sherlock sips at the tea. “Just… lonely.” And then he bursts out. “I miss him. Even though he left only yesterday.”

“Dear, dear…” Mrs. Hudson places a wrinkled hand soothingly over Sherlock’s free one. “It will be alright. But, it’s hard – isn’t it? When John brings a man home and you can’t be with your own?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs. He then says. “You would think this would get easier with time… Yet – it seems to grow harder every day.” Forlornly, he adds, “And every day that passes without seeing him feels like – wasted time.”

“You’ve thought about it then?” Mrs. Hudson asks – somewhat cautiously. Her hands reach for a tin at the centre of the table. She opens it, revealing an assortment of biscuits.

“Thought about what?” Sherlock reflexively reaches for a ginger nut.

“Leaving.” Mrs. Hudson is as shrewd as ever. Too damned perceptive. “England.” There is a melancholy behind her syllables.

“Mycroft brought it up at first. I wouldn’t have dared to think of such a thing otherwise. Him being the government and all…” Sherlock takes another forkful of perfectly moist cake. “But – yes, the idea is constantly at the back of my mind. He doesn’t want to leave any time soon though; he abhors loose ends. However… I think he is afraid that I will regret it. That little brother makes impulsively rash decisions without thinking about the consequences… That might be true a while ago, but…” He trails off helplessly. “I guess… I never really gave him the confidence in that regard.”

“Your brother is a wise man. But – Sherlock, if he didn’t have confidence in your decision-making, he would have never allowed this relationship to commence in the first place, dear.”

She has a point – Sherlock concedes. Mycroft had left all the cards in Sherlock’s hand when it came down to starting their romantic relationship.

_“If you want this, brother mine, you better be sure. Think it over. I will want everything you are willing to give to me. And, I am willing to give you everything that you will let me give to you, little brother. When we have dinner next week, I shall ask you for your answer.”_

Sherlock had known what his answer was going to be before he had gone to sleep that night. Anticipation had thrummed within him that entire week; he had been excited, nervous – in complete disbelief that this was a possibility for him. Fortunately, Lestrade had a good case that had distracted him for most of it – or he would have gone crazy. At the appointed time, he had shown up to the three-starred Michelin restaurant – Mycroft’s choice – in a new suit, complete with tie and matching pocket square. Gordon Ramsay’s – if his memory is correct. When he had walked into the private room – the expression on Mycroft’s face was a wonder to behold. It had made wearing the damned tie worth it. He had winked and asked.

_“Waiting for someone?”_

_“Waiting for my scamp of a younger brother, I am afraid. Have you seen him?”_

_“I am afraid… not. Mind if I join you instead, handsome?”_

Mycroft had looked utterly taken aback at the flirtatious compliment. Abject disbelief appears for a moment before disappearing, making Sherlock feel terrible about every joke he had made at his brother’s expense over the years. Because his brother was handsome. Still is. Looking gorgeous in his three-piece suit. Sherlock had almost giggled at that moment because he suddenly had a mad desire to divest his brother of his suit and find out what exactly was hidden underneath. Goodness. He had never had such an indecent urge before in his life!

_“Of course, please… sit.”_

They had ended up debating about the merits of going for the usual _Prestige_ menu over the changing _Seasonal Inspirations_ menu – because the truth was that both of them were gourmets. Mycroft more so than him. Sherlock loved good food when there wasn’t a case on. He was just too lazy to cook. And if the food was substandard, he just wouldn’t eat it, much to John’s chagrin.

“Reminiscing – I see…” Mrs. Hudson interrupts him with a fond grin.

“You caught me.” Sherlock admits with a faint blush. “But you are right – Mycroft wouldn’t have allowed our relationship to happen if he didn’t believe it would work out. There would have been too much at stake.”

“There are no guarantees in love, dear.” Mrs. Hudson reminds him. “Love is like everything else, Sherlock – take it from an old woman. It requires work.”

“I know. But I guess… Mycroft has been testing the waters. With the vacations. To see if we can handle being in each other’s company – constantly. I think we can – sometimes we just need to give each other a little space, now and then.” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “You could say – that he is gathering data.”

“How was your vacation? I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since you got back – but it never was the right time, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson asks.

Sherlock beams. “It was the best! Here, I can show you pictures.” He pulls out his phone and with a few passwords and a fingerprint, he unlocks the private encrypted cloud that holds the precious photos. Scooting over with his chair, he sits next to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh my – what is happening here?”

Sherlock grins at the image of him slinging stinky red-brown mud at Mycroft. They had been at the mud baths at the _Palea Kameni_. Their private guide had taken photos for them.

“Throwing mud!”

“Your brother certainly doesn’t look pleased.” Mrs. Hudson observes when Sherlock scrolls to the next image – which is of Mycroft half-submerged with mud from the cove.

“He chased me around the baths and almost spanked me.” Sherlock admits with a smile. “I loved it. I think he did too. We went walking around the volcano’s caldera afterwards.” He swipes through several pictures with a finger, showing Mycroft and him walking and fooling around on the rocky trail. A surreal series of imagery featuring lava (igneous) rocks and yellow flowers – the only plant that seemed to grow on the volcanic soils followed. The crater smoke had smelled like sulfur – rotting eggs – but considering that they had went for a dip in the warm mud earlier that had smelled equally as odorous – they didn’t mind.

“Aw, that is sweet.” Mrs. Hudson points to the next picture. Mycroft and he are standing next to the crater, with the sea in view. Their arms are entangled in each other’s and there’s a secretive smile on both their faces. “You two look happy.”

“We were. We still are.”

He didn’t mention to Mrs. Hudson that Mycroft had actually spanked him when they had gotten back to their suite, although he has an instinctive hunch that Mrs. Hudson would probably approve of such activities. Heartily.

**

 _“Lover mine, you were a very naughty boy today.”_ _His brother says with a seductive mien as Sherlock had emerged from the shower – finally free of mud._

_“Was I? I am afraid that I don’t quite recall – brother dear.” Sherlock replies rather flippantly._

_“Oh? You don’t remember throwing mud around like a wild child earlier today?”_

_“Nope.” Sherlock saturates the word with impertinence._

_Mycroft walks over towards him and wraps his arm around his towel-clad waist. “I think – you might need a lesson in manners, dear.”_

_“Brother – I know how to behave. I just don’t like – behaving.”_

_“I think I might need to spank you.” Mycroft’s voice is all silk._

_Sherlock laughs playfully, “If you dare!”_

_With a firm grip around his waist, Mycroft guides Sherlock back to the bed. Then with a sudden twisting motion, Mycroft pins Sherlock against the mattress. Sherlock goes down willingly. Looking up at his brother, Sherlock requests. “Brother mine, if you are going to do this, I want to be sprawled across your lap.”_

_Mycroft lets him go, and he drapes himself over his brother’s lap – his cock trapped against his lover’s thigh. When a hand brushes against his bum, he sighs._

_“Do you want this, Sherlock? We don’t have to do this.” Fingers delicately trace the old faded scars from Serbia above his bum. “There’s enough violence done to your person over the last few years.”_

_“Mycroft, I want it.” Sherlock says earnestly, dropping the cheeky boy act. “I promise I will tell you to stop if I don’t. And, to be honest – I was hoping to goad you into doing it. Setting the mood, giving you a reason…”_

_“Impertinent boy!”_

_“That’s me.” He smirks before wiggling his arse enticingly._

_Smack!_

_“Harder!” Sherlock demands. “Like you mean it, brother!”_

_Smack! The second one lands harder on other cheek. Mycroft’s spanks are precise, and each strike comes down harder than the next, setting the flesh into a pleasant burning ache that seems to be linked to his groin in some way. God. This feels so damned good. Sherlock wants to rub his cock all over his brother’s trousers. His brother stops after a few more to slip his hand down to Sherlock’s prick._

_“Mm… you are getting off on this, little brother. Who would have ever thought that the great Sherlock Holmes enjoys a bit of spanking?” His brother says with amusement._

_Sherlock moans when Mycroft’s hand strokes his cock._

_“Brother… please.” Sherlock finds himself pleading. “I want… I…”_

_“What do you want, dearest?” Mycroft’s other hand – which had been holding him down – is gently caressing his back._

_“To come… please.” Sherlock struggles with his words._

_“Well, this is delightful. You do know your manners.” Sherlock can sense Mycroft smiling affectionately at him. “Little brother. You can come for me then, can you?” Mycroft continues to frig him._

_“I am going to get it all over your trousers…” Sherlock warns._

_“Nothing the dry-cleaners can’t fix – darling mine. Cum for me now.” Mycroft adds an additional twist to his motions and Sherlock shudders and cums with a loud grunt – spilling his seed against the bedsheets._

_Sherlock curls around his brother in the usual post-coital bliss – and Mycroft presses a gentle kiss against his head._

**

At this point, Mrs. Hudson had taken Sherlock’s phone from him and is busy looking through the album. The chocolate cake had disappeared into his belly along with several biscuits. He feels sated and happier. It is nice to share these memories with Mrs. Hudson – who has always been more like a mother to him than his own Mummy. There had been all sorts of lovely memories in Santorini – they had gone parasailing, jet-skiing, beach-hopping (they had taken loads of pictures at the Red Beach and Perissa Beach for the unique sand colours) and snorkeling; they had rented a traditional cave house on the coast from Airbnb and eaten so many delicious things. Sherlock still can taste the chocolate baklava – the perfect dessert for his sweet tooth from a non-descript bakery aptly named _Bakery_. And, he smiles – remembering that in less than two weeks – he and Mycroft will be going to Taiwan for a new series of non-brotherly adventures.

“I think I will go to Mycroft’s to sleep.” Sherlock says after Mrs. Hudson returns his phone. “It would be much more peaceful there.”

“Sherlock…” The tone makes Sherlock look sharply at his landlady. Suddenly, under the illumination of the kitchen light, he can see that Mrs. Hudson looks tired… and perhaps her age. She grabs at his coat sleeve. “In this life, I never had children. But – if I were to have had a son – I would have wished that he’d been you, dear.”

“Dear Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock finds himself being embraced tightly. “You are the mother I wish I had.” He drops his head to press a kiss against a wrinkled cheek. “And, I am not leaving anytime soon. Although, do you really want a son that shoots the walls out of boredom and keeps body parts in the fridge?”

“Certainly, he would never be boring.” The twinkle in her eyes makes Sherlock chuckle delightedly.

“God forbid he be dull! Goodnight.”

.

.

“Mycroft! Lover mine!”

When Mycroft steps foot in his house for the first time in approximately four days, he is almost bowled over by Sherlock – who had evidently been waiting all afternoon and part of the evening for his arrival. His brother clings tightly onto him in a fierce hug and kisses him on the cheek before imploring, “Please don’t leave me again, big brother – life is so dull without you.”

“I missed you too, dearest.” Mycroft leans in to return the kiss. “Someone’s been cooking…”

“I did. I made dinner.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose, “You went to the physician before coming here. Antiseptic.”

“Anthea made me go. I haven’t gone in a while, brother mine.” Mycroft says sheepishly.

“Ghastly people – doctors.” Sherlock remarks.

“Yet, you are friends with two of them.” Mycroft bends down to pick up his luggage with his free hand, while his brother drags him deeper into the house.

“She didn’t give you a clean bill of health…”

Damn, Mycroft does not want to talk about this now. He is wary and tired. After flying back to Heathrow, the last thing he had wanted was to go to this appointment that Anthea had set up for him at the last minute. But he knows Sherlock – a tenacious creature – would not let this go. He sighs. “Not quite… my blood pressure was a bit elevated… I will have to go again in a few days for a repeat.”

“Your job is too stressful, darling mine.” Sherlock sighs as he takes the luggage from his brother. “Wash your hands, big brother – and I will put this away. We can eat after.”

Mycroft shakes his head as his brother disappears up the stairs. Obediently, he goes to the kitchen sink to wash his hands and he sits down at the dining table. The table had already been laid out with a fine cream-coloured tablecloth, cutlery, napkins and plates. Three squat candles and a thin glass vase containing three fresh stargazer lilies – six petaled flowers with splashes of purplish-reddish pink on white – sit at the centre of the table. Japanese. That is what Sherlock had prepared for dinner based on the mouth-watering aromas coming from the kitchen. His brother dashes down the stairs and brings the food to the table. Barbeque eel (unagi) on rice, a plate of vegetable tempura with the appropriate dipping sauce, a simple garden salad with a peanut-based dressing and skewers of yakitori (chicken) are laid out.

“I guess we can cut down on the fried foods, big brother.” Sherlock pulls the chair across from Mycroft and sits down, chopsticks in hand.

“Tempura aside, this is a healthy spread, lover mine.” Mycroft observes. “But – Sherlock – it’s only a mild elevation –“

“How high?” Sherlock asks, as Mycroft begins to scoop the rice and eel from the oriental porcelain bowl.

“151 over 93.”

“Damn, Mycroft – that’s not mild – that’s medication territory.” Sherlock picks up a piece of pumpkin tempura and dips it in the soy-based sauce. “Any headaches, dizziness?”

“Brother… I just left the physician’s office…” Mycroft grimaces as he picks up a skewer of yakitori. The chunks of tenderly grilled chicken are interspaced with pieces of pepper and onion. “I don’t need the medical exam here too. I am just getting older. And Mummy has hypertension as well – you know. It’s probably genetic.”

“I just worry.” Sherlock admits. “I just want you alive and well.”

“I know, little brother. I appreciate that. And – thank you for cooking. It’s delicious. I can only hope that there is dessert too.”

“Mrs. Hudson sends her regards with some lovely lemon squares if you would care for that, dearest.” Sherlock says reluctantly.

“I can split one with you if that makes you happier.”

“I will take that compromise.” Sherlock nods. “We will go out for more walks. Good thing we got rid of the smoking habit.”

“Not today. I just want to eat, shower and hit the hay – so to speak. We can go for a walk tomorrow, I promise. I’ve been up for the last twenty-four hours, lover mine.”

“Can we cuddle at least?”

“Of course, darling mine. We can always do that. I will help you wash the dishes.”

“No, Mycroft – please go shower after we finish eating. You are exhausted. Let me take care of this.”

 _Let me take care of you._ It is written plainly in Sherlock’s expressive eyes. Mycroft just simply nods his agreement. He is too tired to argue. And, it’s a nice change – seeing his brother take responsibility like this.

.

.

When Sherlock walks into their bedroom later, Mycroft is already fast asleep. The lamp next to his brother’s side of the bed is still on – and Sherlock smiles at the place of honour the large photograph of them kissing on the balcony in Mykonos gets above the head of their bed. Mycroft had printed and framed that one before hanging it on the wall himself. His brother had looked hot with a hammer in his hand while dressed in a pair of faded jeans and an old shirt. There are other miscellaneous pictures of the two of them together scattered around the bedroom – as no one enters Mycroft’s sanctuary besides themselves these days – not even the housekeeper. Quietly, he moves to switch off the lamp before crawling into bed himself. And for the first time in a hundred and nine hours and nineteen minutes – Sherlock falls asleep – lulled by the comforting sounds of his lover’s gentle snoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up:  
> Not writing anything this week. Got an exam on Friday.  
> I am starting surgery after the next week, so... I will be less productive on Ao3 over the next few weeks until Christmas holidays compared to the previous months.  
> Again, thanks for all the <3 and support!


	22. Chapter 22

“Seriously Marshall, you didn’t have to.” Sherlock is flabbergasted when the physician walks into the flat, bearing bags that smell promisingly of home-cooked food. 

“Compliments of Mummy, really.” Marshall shrugs, while setting the bags onto the dining table. Efficiently, he unpacks the tupperware – the largest one bearing a generous portion of that spicy Sichuan style spicy whitefish stew that Sherlock had come to love. Somehow, Marshall’s Mummy had taken a great liking to Sherlock, just as his own Mummy had liked Marshall. “She insisted that I bring everything over. And it’s really the least I could do after you endured that awful party with me. I haven’t heard a single word or joke about finding some cute girl to settle down with since.”

Sherlock picks up a pair of disposable chopsticks and rubs the ragged and splintery edges together to smooth them down. “I did lose a bet, if you recall. I hope that your grandmother wasn’t too pissed off after I cleaned out everyone during mahjong. Even I learned a lot of new swear words.” 

Marshall laughs. “You tricked them all… pretending that you were the clueless British man who never played mahjong at all in the beginning. My cousin Ming Ming was still complaining to me yesterday via phone.”

“I’ve never played mahjong in my life.” Sherlock smiles slightly as he opens a smaller tupperware with freshly steamed jasmine rice. He had made many stupid and amateurish mistakes when he had initially sat down at the game table. But he had observed – picking up quickly the various strategies employed by his experienced opponents and coming up with his own, as the shrewd elders and Marshall’s younger but equally sharp cousin Ming Ming handled and tossed their green-backed tiles with the proficiency that only years of practice could bring and spoke in that rapidfire dialect of Shanghainese which Sherlock had barely been able to wrap his head around despite his knowledge of Mandarin. “I am just a fast learner.”

“Sure…” Marshall grins widely as he snatches a piece of braised pork chop from another tupperware. “Did you finish packing?”

Sherlock nods as he picks up a piece of tender boiled fish, minding the bones still jutting out of the meat. “As stupid as it sounds, I’ve been counting down the days since I bought the ticket.” He sighs. Mycroft had left for Singapore a week ago for some important global summit or something. He would join his brother in Taipei, and as much as he is anticipating their meeting, the sixteen or so hour flight with a stopover in between at Amsterdam by himself is something he is not looking forward to. 

“It’s not stupid at all.” Marshall offers Sherlock a sad smile. “I just wish the world wasn’t so stupid.”

“Run by idiots.” Sherlock grabs some leafy greens floating around in the stew, mindful to leave the pepper.

“Totally. Where’s John, anyhow?” Marshall asks.

“He’s hardly ever here these days. I was trying to convince Mycroft to come over before he had left for Singapore, but he is rather put-off by the idea of coming over here ever since Mrs. Hudson found out about us. I just want to have sex in my own bed for once…” His tone comes out more forlorn than he had intended it to.

“It’s alright.” Marshall reaches over to pat his hand. The physician then remarks. “I am rather surprised at John – barely a few months have passed, and he’s pretty much already living at Alan’s.” He then smirks. “I guess he really must like cock. Alan’s at least.” 

“Ha, I could have told him that years ago.” Sherlock offers. “The only time I see Rosie these days is when I babysit her. He comes around occasionally for cases, but no more than you do – really.”

“Well, you can never have too many Boswells at your beck and call.”

“Perhaps…” 

The two lapse into a companionable silence as they focus on eating the victuals in the interest of time. The stew and sweet pork chops are quickly decimated, and Sherlock savours the spiciness of the stew itself at the end – washing it down with a few bites of rice. When they are finished, Marshall wordlessly starts tidying up – making sure to grab his car keys, while Sherlock gathers together his luggage and everything else he would need for his trip overseas. As they leave the building, they are waylaid by Mrs. Hudson.

“Leaving already, Sherlock?”

He nods as Mrs. Hudson or rather Martha now presses another container into his hands.

“I know what airplane food is like so here’s a snack for later – dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hud-I mean Martha.” Sherlock gives his landlady a one armed hug and pecks her fondly on the cheek. There’s a cozy sort of warmth that floods within his being – knowing that he has all these people who care for and support him. A melancholy fills him – a sadness that he would be leaving them behind for awhile. He hasn’t even bought a return ticket, since Mycroft himself has no idea how long they could actually stay abroad at this moment with Anthea manning the ship at home.

“I will miss you. Enjoy yourself, and say hello to your love for me.” 

Sherlock gives a final nod, before Mrs. Hudson waves them out.

.

.

Sherlock had shed his Belstaff immediately upon hitting the streets of Taipei after emerging from the Metro. The warmth of autumn here is comfortable, but there are clouds gathering overhead – offering the promise of rain. People fill the lively streets, as he makes his way with his phone’s GPS directing the way to the apartment that Mycroft had rented days before. A flower shop catches Sherlock’s eye, and he steps in – taking a breath of the fragrant aromas that fill the small space. The shopkeeper, with rather laboured English, greets him and Sherlock – with his impeccable Mandarin, buys a small bouquet of pricey hybrid roses – purple petals with hints of pink at the centre, not too dissimilar from the rose that he had cut off Mummy’s rosebush all those years ago for his brother. 

“For a lady, yes?” The young man smiles – continuing his eager use of English. 

“Of course.” Sherlock deadpans with amusement, thinking about his ‘lady’ as he fumbles with the colourful bills. “I flew from London for her.” He adds in Mandarin. 

“Lucky girl.” The man looks impressed at him before he counts the change in front of Sherlock and hands the correct amount back. “I wish you luck and happiness. Enjoy my homeland.”

“Thanks!” Sherlock is already heading out, having memorized the directions and map from his phone – considering that his hands are now too full to hold his mobile device. 

.

.

“Oh, brother mine – you are drenched!” Mycroft exclaims when Sherlock finally makes it to the apartment looking rather like a drowned rat. “I told you to take a taxi from the airport.” He then sighs deeply, “You never listen.”

“Wanted to buy you something from the streets.” Sherlock mumbles as Mycroft takes the flowers, his waterlogged coat, his bag and his suitcase from him. 

“Mm… my sentimental darling.” Mycroft kisses his wet cheek as his hands work to divest him of his wet clothes. “Into the shower with you. I will have dinner ready afterwards.” 

“Missed you.” Sherlock breathes. “London is lonely without you – my lucky lady.”

Mycroft is more amused than annoyed. “Where did that come from?”

“The flower shop guy.” 

“Ah. But alas, I think the dresses would look better on you, darling. You should model that black dress again for me some time.” Mycroft pulls down Sherlock’s trousers before pushing him into the nearest loo. “Shower now – talk after. Don’t need you getting a cold on top of the jetlag – I have plans for you.”

“Oh, do you? That sounds nefarious – Mycroft mine.” 

“Indeed. I plan to chain you to my bed for days on end and use you as I see fit, little brother.”

“Kinky!” Sherlock yelps when Mycroft playfully slaps his bare arse. “Ok, alright, I am showering.”

Mycroft grins happily to himself when he hears Sherlock running the shower from within, before heading back to the kitchen. He finds a vase somewhere in the modernly decorated living room and fills it with water from the faucet, before placing the bouquet in. Caressing a petal with two of his fingers, he sighs. Sherlock. God. How he had missed his brother over the last week and a bit. Life was so dull without him in it. Grabbing the things he needs to set the table, Mycroft does just that – while humming a jaunty tune. Even though they had been seeing each other a few times a week over the last few months since their trip to the Cyclades, it’s not the same. Sherlock arriving here had felt like a homecoming of sorts despite being 9,779 kilometres away from London. There’s just something… something about being together in a friendly place where they didn’t have to pretend.

His brother is home. 

“Mm… this looks good!” Sherlock walks out from the bathroom with only a large white fluffy towel covering his naked form. “Did you make it all yourself, brother?”

“I made the congee, but I shamelessly bought everything else from the market downstairs.” Mycroft hands his brother a pair of chopsticks and a spoon, before grabbing him by the towel and pulling him closer. “Hello, lover mine.” The syllables fall silkily from his lips.

“Mm.. Mmppff!” Sherlock manages before being kissed into soundlessness. 

Mycroft reaches over to rub at a cheekbone before letting him go. “I missed these.”

“Only them, Mycroft? Irene was rather partial to them too. Wanted to cut herself slapping them.” Sherlock sits down at the table, his hand eagerly reaching for a fried taro ball. It crunches deliciously in his mouth. “Damn this stuff is all fried.”

“Ah, Ms. Adler.” Mycroft feels rather nauseated thinking about her. Nasty woman, having convinced his brother to betray their country. “The only things I want to do, yeobo, is to make love to you. Spoil you. Make you happy. And… brother – let me indulge in my favourite Taiwanese street foods without the lecture – I promise we will do a lot of walking to make up for it. If it makes you happier, you can check my blood pressure every day if you want.”

“And have sex.” Sherlock gives him that look. The one that says  _ take me to the bedroom and fuck me now _ . “Lots of it.” 

“I am sure we can fit that into the itinerary somehow.” Mycroft says passively, while Sherlock’s bare foot is caressing his sock covered shin. He valiantly tries to fight down the desire to abandon dinner for the bed.

“Very droll.” Sherlock turns his attention to his bowl of congee – with chunks of filleted fish, green onion and sliced preserved egg known as pí dàn. “This is perfect after a long plane ride – thank you, big brother.” 

“No, thank you – you have no idea – how much I looked forward to your arrival. And of course, thank you very much for these beautiful flowers, lover mine. They… mean a lot to me.” 

“I know.” Sherlock replies. “I saw them from the shop window, and I thought of you. Not that my mind is already not filled with thoughts of you, dearest mine. Mm… I like these youtiao that you bought – fresh and crunchy. I am sure there will be many trips to the night markets – brother mine?”

“Of course. Anything you want, little brother.”

.

.

“I just want to eat you.” Mycroft gracefully pounces onto the generous king-sized bed, as Sherlock – clad only in his towel – is snuggled up amongst the pillows at the head of the bed. “God… I missed you so.” He adds as he crawls over his lover, letting his nose nuzzle the contours of Sherlock’s lovely neck. 

His brother sighs at his touch, sinking down further into the pillows. He mumbles, rather tiredly. “Missed you too. I am sorry, Mycroft – I am just tired.”

“I know – let me do all the work, darling mine.” Mycroft tilts his head upwards to kiss those delectable plush lips that he had been dreaming about for the past week while letting his hands caress the skin on Sherlock’s torso. “My gorgeous, gorgeous love. I want you… so much.”

“Then have me.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle at him as he lets the towel wrapped around him fall.

“I will.” Mycroft grins back while letting his fingers trace the delicious trail of hair leading down to his brother’s erect prick. “So lovely and so hard for me.”

Sherlock moans loudly when Mycroft’s hot and moist mouth takes his glans and shaft in one go, letting his tongue swirl around the organ, taking his time to tease the slit. 

“Feels so good…” Sherlock sighs, enjoying the familiar warmth build in his loins as his brother continues to suck at his cock, while putting his tongue to good use. “God, brother – you are a magnificent cocksucker.”

“Why, thank you.” Mycroft lets his brother’s cock slip out from his mouth causing Sherlock to emit a sound of complaint, before he hurriedly undresses himself, letting his shirt, belt, trousers and pants fall wherever they may. A packet of lubricant is impatiently ripped open with more force than necessary.

“God.” Sherlock groans when he watches his brother work himself open with uncharacteristic haste and need. “You are so hot like this – big brother. So wanton for my cock.” 

“Mm… you’ve been working on the dirty talk – I see.”

“Hush. It’s not hard when you are providing all the hot imagery – mmmmmpt!” Sherlock is cut off when Mycroft straddles his thighs – and then something unbelievably hot and tight squeezes the head of his cock. “Oh fuck.”

“That’s right, love.” Mycroft grins downwards while slowly working himself up and down on Sherlock’s prick. “Fuck indeed.”

“God…” Sherlock simply watches his brother, his lover take his pleasure, while fighting the urge to come too soon. There is something so deliciously naughty about seeing Mycroft out of his usual immaculate three-piece suit, out of the persona of the British government satisfying such basic needs. The way his brother's eyes are almost closed; the way his dear face scrunches up as he savours the sensation of penetration. And Sherlock is the only person on this planet that will ever get the privilege to see his brother like this. “Fuck.” He gasps when Mycroft speeds up his movements, practically almost bouncing on his prick. “Damn, you feel so good… Come on, brother mine… stroke yourself.” Sherlock manages.

His brother takes himself in hand, and strokes once, two times and thrice, before spilling the evidence of his love all over Sherlock’s chest with a grunt – with his head thrown slightly backwards, his lips parted and the relaxation of his facial muscles. The spasming of his tight delicious canal causes Sherlock to climax with a muffled shout, feeling his seed spurt deep within his brother. 

“I needed that.” Mycroft says as he rearranges them, so that they are lying face-to-face on the bed.

“As did I.” Sherlock feels even more drained – but in a good way. He reaches out to caress his brother’s chin and stubbly cheeks. “You are so hot, Mycroft.” 

His brother smiles amusedly. “Well, you view me through the lenses of love, little brother. And I am glad for that. You are the hot one. The beautiful one.”

“I vehemently disagree.” Sherlock guides Mycroft’s head toward his own so that they could kiss again. “And, brother – if you disagree with me, you are insulting my taste in men.”

“Fine.” Mycroft melts into the second much longer kiss. “I am hot, you are hot and we are both beautiful.”

“Mm…” Sherlock mumbles with satisfaction before he finally drifts off – exhausted and sated. 

Mycroft leans over to give one last kiss before getting off the bed to clean both himself and his lover off with a moist towel. It’s still too early for bed for himself, but he will bring his laptop from the study and read some of the reports that Anthea had emailed earlier in the day next to his slumbering brother. 

.

.

“Time flies too quickly.” Sherlock remarks as he props his elbows against the smoothed stone that make up the rim of their private hot springs basin – looking out into the gorgeous surroundings of Beitou – the northernmost district of Taipei City. There is an otherworldly lushness, a certain type of vibrancy to the trees, the grasses and all the other flora that England seems to lack. A small waterfall crashes down below their vantage point. It is serene here. “I don’t think I want to ever leave, Mycroft.”

“Neither do I.” His brother walks over, the sulfurous waters splashing in his wake. An arm encircles Sherlock’s torso as a nose nuzzles against the junction of his shoulder and neck. “You know… dearest… when you first walked into the flat over a week ago – it felt like I haven’t seen you since we left Santorini in June. As absurd the idea sounds…”

“I know what you mean.” Sherlock turns slightly to look at his lover; his skin reddened from the heat and the steam of the naturally heated waters. “I thought the same.” He agrees, his voice at once both soft and wistful. “Like I haven’t seen you properly since then. It’s… just not the same – it’s hard to pinpoint why.”

“It’s because we don’t have to hide.” Mycroft replies earnestly. “I can do this, and no one would bat an eye.” He leans forward, and Sherlock meets him in the middle – their lips brushing ever so sweetly, so tenderly together. “I love you, qīn ài de <darling>.” 

“Ditto.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkle as Mycroft sits down in the basin, pulling him down onto his lap. They share another breathless kiss; this one with a delicious bit of tongue. When they break apart, Sherlock smiles, before saying. “I liked playing house with you, lover mine. I will miss it when we go back in a few days.” 

“You mean buying groceries, cooking, cleaning, making the bed, doing the laundry and etcetera, brother mine? Or rather… making me do it all?” Mycroft gives a teasing grin, which is immediately kissed off by Sherlock.

“Shush brother – I do help with my share of the work.” Sherlock proceeds to pout, which makes Mycroft laugh before he leans forward to kiss his beloved. 

“You are so adorable. Kě ài <cute> as the natives would say.” 

“I am not cute.” Sherlock flounces out of Mycroft’s grasp to the opposite side of the basin, making his brother laugh with unrestrained mirth.

“Oh little brother – you are the definition of cute.” Mycroft chases after his sulking brother, catching him once more with his arms. “Smile for me, darling.” 

“Don’t wanna.” Sherlock crosses his arms. 

Mycroft bends his head to kiss the nape of Sherlock’s neck, while a hand possessively strokes down his brother’s toned abdomen, drifting dangerously toward his cock. 

“Damn, brother – you are too good to me.” Sherlock sighs when the wandering hand gives his prick a stroke. “A hot springs hand job. Mm…” He closes his eyes in bliss, and just allows himself to feel. “God… please more.” He begs as the hand provides what he asks for – more friction and speed. His hips begin to buck as he nears the point of no return. 

“Come for me, dearest mine.” Mycroft says; his words tender.

And Sherlock gasps, as he spills before turning around to bury his face against his Mycroft’s chest – suddenly feeling that any distance between them is too far for him to bear. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you… my love.” Mycroft cradles his brother close. “My love. My dearest. Darling.”

“When will we meet again?” Sherlock murmurs against Mycroft’s chest. An absurd question, considering that they will continue seeing each other in London after they return, but Mycroft understands what his brother means. With one hand, he strokes his brother’s curls – which had grown back in abundance since their Cycladian trip. 

“Hopefully soon.” Mycroft says while sighing internally. With all the political crap happening around the world, and at home these days – it may be a long while before he could find several more days to string together for another trip like this. “Let’s enjoy what we’ve got left.” 

“Alright.” Sherlock sighs, but he looks up bravely and offers Mycroft a small smile. The smile that his lover had asked for. There is no use moping – not in paradise, and certainly not in big brother’s strong and dependable arms. 


	23. Chapter 23

"Can you repeat that again?" Mycroft asks – the ugly feeling of dread beginning to curl tight in the depths of his belly. 

"Your brother has been shot…" 

There is more information provided by the officer on the other end of the line but Mycroft hears absolutely none of it. His thought processes have slowed to a standstill. Numbness perfuses him – both physically and emotionally. God. This cannot possibly be happening. His hands shake of their own accord as he fumbles with his mobile phone. 

_ Dr. Hayes, did you hear? MH _

_ Shit, Mr. Holmes – I was there when it happened. It was meant for Greg. I went with him to the A&E. I meant to text you earlier, but it completely slipped my mind. Apologies. The NSY has the culprit in custody. ZW _

_ Will he be okay? MH _

_ To be honest, it's not good. The trauma team took him back to the OR for an ex-lap as soon as they wheeled him into the trauma bay and did their initial assessment while continuing adequate fluid resuscitation. BP: 87/50. Hemodynamically unstable. Hypovolemic shock due to acute blood loss. He’s being transfused packed RBCs. We are at the Royal London. ZW _

_ I am leaving Whitehall now. MH _

_ I am sitting in preop, catching up on my patient notes. Text me when you arrive as I do have privileges here as a consultant. ZW _

_ And, I consented him for everything, even though I know you are his legal proxy. Time was of the essence. ZW _

_ Understood. See you. MH _

Grabbing his umbrella, he rushes out of his office – disregarding the rest of his day’s commitments. Anthea will sort it out.

. 

. 

Mycroft has been in hospitals way too many times to count on behalf of his brother over the past years, but this is the first time that he is at one as Sherlock’s lover. Secret, but still. The ache in his chest has now grown dull and heavy; his sensorium is muted – everything is a blur as he strides through the Royal London Hospital to its main operating area. 

After texting the news of his arrival to Dr. Hayes, Mycroft leans heavily against the wall next to the boarding office, feeling the brunt of his emotional devastation for the first time. It is magnitudes worse in comparison to the first time his brother had gotten shot, knowing that he could lose everything that is meaningful in this world. 

_ No. Things cannot continue like this. _ He thinks.  _ Something needs to change before it is too late… If it isn't too late already.  _

Several passersby try to get his attention, evidently concerned – but Mycroft pays them no heed. The last time he had seen Sherlock had been three days ago, and all their reasons for not meeting sooner suddenly seem ridiculously trivial and stupid. His brother materializes in his mind, not in the persona of the untouchable Consulting Detective in his fancy bespoke clothes – but rather a version scantily clad in one of Mycroft's soft and silky pajama tops that he had stolen over the months. Vibrant, hale and himself. His eyes dark and imploring; ever so vulnerable. It brings Mycroft back two months ago to Taiwan and the hot springs –  _ “When will we meet again?” _

“Oh beloved mine.” He whispers under his breath. “Whenever you would let me. Please.”  _ Don’t go where I cannot follow. You promised. Sherlock.  _

“Mr. Holmes… Mr. Holmes…! Mycroft.” 

Pivoting slowly away from the whitewashed wall, Mycroft sees Dr. Hayes standing next to him; his expression grey but not devoid of hope. A tissue is pressed into his hand, as Mycroft realizes his eyes are a tad more moist than they had been previously. 

“Sorry about the wait. I popped into the OR for a peek just as you texted before the scrub shooed me out. Penetrating left colon injury. The team is contemplating their options. But I think they will opt to repair the injury outright without the need for a diversion.”

“Dr. Hayes… or should I call you Marshall now?” At the physician’s nod, Mycroft continues. “As intelligent I may be – I don’t understand the lingo.” 

“Ah. They have to remove the damaged bits of colon and put him back together… so to speak. The thing about the left colon injuries is that some surgeons like to leave the colon in discontinuity so that the tissue can heal before putting the colon back together in what is called an anastomosis by using a fancy stapler. But the data is rather sparse in regard to the benefits of waiting. Fortuitously, the bullet came out the other side without hitting anything else vital, so we can thank the gods. They will take him to the surgical intensive care unit afterwards, so we can see him there then.” 

“So… he will live.” Mycroft dares to conclude… somewhat tentatively.

“God. I certainly hope so. Mycroft. It’s certainly a survivable injury, but he’s still in critical condition. People have survived worse injuries, but others have passed from less.” Marshall looks around carefully before continuing, “He might be your everything, but he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Come. Let’s go wait somewhere a little bit more pleasant. One of the unscrubbed medical students watching the case will text me if anything comes up. Let me drop by the boarding office for a sec – just want to tell them that I want all my cases for tomorrow moved to the next day – there’s no way I will be in any fit state to operate after today.”

.

.

"Brother mine." Mycroft says quietly, but with great affection as he gently caresses his brother's restrained arm hours later in the intensive care unit. 

Heavily sedated, Sherlock doesn't respond. It is strange – seeing all these tubes and wires attached to his brother with the ventilator assisting with his breathing. 

"You've said before that breathing was boring; yet to me – it is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Furtively glancing around, mentally cursing the fishbowl nature of the ICU room – Mycroft shrugs and kisses his brother on the cheek, minding the tube going down his mouth. 

Fuck it.

"Come back to me." Mycroft whispers in Sherlock's ear before he turns around to leave the room to grab a much needed bite to eat.

.

.

"Why did no one tell me that Sherlock was shot?" The indignant voice of one Dr. Watson can be heard as Mycroft walks back to sit vigil at his lover's bedside with a bouquet of flowers in hand. White lilies. He had wanted to buy roses, but that might be too suggestive for nimble minds. 

"God. John… It's been a long and horrendous day… I can't deal with your hurt feelings too." Marshall grumbles. 

"Boys, if you can't keep it quiet in here – I am going to have to ask you two to leave. You two are disturbing my patient." The formidable voice of Sherlock's no-nonsense night nurse – Mina – admonishes them. 

"Sorry… I am merely his flatmate." 

"And, I am his significant other." Marshall mutters as Mycroft enters the room. 

"It's after hours – only two of you can stay." Nurse Mina looks pointedly at the clock. 

Marshall looks pointedly at his work badge clipped to his trousers while Mycroft simply gives Dr. Watson a dismissive glance. Sighing, Dr. Watson picks up his bag and vacates the room without a fuss. Mina slips from the room shortly after. 

"Damn, I should get some flowers too." Marshall remarks when Mycroft sets the lilies down. "I didn't know if you two exchanged flowers…"

"It's not usually an exchange – it's something Sherlock does for me. A request – get some roses. Red ones." Mycroft sighs deeply. He realizes only now that his brother could be at death's door – well technically he already has been – and he cannot comfort him as a lover could or rather should. A pang had throbbed deep in his chest, when Marshall had declared his claim on Sherlock when he had entered the room.

"Will do." Marshall nods. 

Mycroft grabs one of Sherlock's restrained and gloved hands and gives it a squeeze. He feels a weak squeeze in return.

"I love you. We are spending Christmas here. I had to tell our parents that you are currently in the hospital, dearest mine. I apologize, but it was a necessary evil before they learned about it from a secondary source.” He leans down, his breath tickling against Sherlock’s ear. “My brave darling… You can't keep going around like this – sacrificing your life to save your friends. You make an awful sociopath, you know."

.

.

“They will try and take the tube out today, dearest mine. I know it’s unbearably uncomfortable. And then… maybe you can talk.” Mycroft strokes Sherlock’s arm. His brother merely blinks; he looks so impossibly fragile amongst the myriad of medical equipment monitoring his vitals, keeping track of his urine and draining the fluid that remains from his surgical site. “Mummy and Father were here earlier. They were rather subdued and did not mention our delightful sister at all.” 

He gets another blink in response. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes – we meet again.” 

Startled, Mycroft turns around so quick that he almost gets whiplash. 

“Ah, DI Lestrade.” He quickly schools himself back into Mycroft-the-brother as he gazes upon the man that his brother had leapt in front of a bullet for. “I am surprised we haven’t met at Sherlock’s bedside yet.”

“It’s been a busy few days, unfortunately.” The DI shrugs. “And – certainly we’ve done enough bedside vigils to be on a first name basis – I think…” At Mycroft’s polite nod, Lestrade-now-Greg continues solemnly – looking old and wan under the hospital lights. “Mycroft… I wouldn’t be standing here right now if it weren’t for your brother. God. I said years ago that your brother is a great man, and that maybe someday he might be a good one – but I was wrong… no – he is the best of men. He… saved my life literally at least twice already.” 

“He is the best.” Mycroft finds himself saying – his voice oddly soft to his ears… 

“I am beyond grateful – but I would rather it be me lying there instead of him. Especially…” Greg turns away slightly – Mycroft can hear the guilt in his voice. “That he’s discovered what it is like to care for someone. And to be cared for in return.”

“As would I.”  _ I would do anything for you not to be in this state. I would give anything to trade places with you.  _ Mycroft turns to look at his brother, whose eyes are now fully open now. “Sherlock.” He says – unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. “Blink once if you can hear me.”

His brother deliberately blinks slowly once.

“Good.” Mycroft replies – feeling ever so grateful. “Very good… Are you ready to get extubated? Two blinks for yes.”

Two quick blinks in succession follow. It’s evident that Sherlock is quite annoyed with the ventilator. 

“Alright, I will go find your nurse. She will get the doctors.” Mycroft hurries out of the room. 

.

.

“Myc…” Sherlock rasps – the syllable barely audible.

“Sh… brother mine. It’s okay.” Mycroft squeezes his brother’s hand – now finally free of those restraints to keep him from pulling out any essential lines. “It’s okay. Lestrade is here too – to your left – if you wish to see him. He’s alive because of you.” 

His brother slowly turns his head to the left.

“Sherlock. Please don’t do that again.” Greg reaches for the other hand. “You’ve saved my poor sorry arse way too many times to count.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  _ Don’t be an idiot.  _

“We should probably text Marshall – he would want to be here.” Greg says, and Mycroft is reminded once more of the reality that he must live. 

“My… want… ice.” 

“Okay… okay… I will see if the nurses will allow you to have some.” 

“Ice…” His eyes are now begging. “Please…”

“Shh… I will take care of it, little brother. I've got you.” Mycroft gives Sherlock’s hand another comforting squeeze before leaving the room again. Before he does, there is a contemplative look on Greg’s face – but he doesn’t think too much of it.

.

.

After the nurse had arranged the curtains to block the room from view to allow Sherlock a little privacy, Mycroft reaches over to cup his brother's cheek with his dominant hand. His thumb caresses a cheekbone. Sherlock sighs quietly, sinking down deeper into the bed. He murmurs. "Want to go home, My…" 

"I know… I know. Lover mine." Mycroft says quietly. "It's Christmas Eve today."

"Hmph… I thought of you… Before I was shot. I asked for your forgiveness." Sherlock replies, labouredly. 

"I forgive you. Don't do this again. The human body can only take so much, Sherlock." 

His brother opens his mouth to retort, but then he catches sight of Mycroft's grave expression. _ I can only take so much, Sherlock. _ The expression on Sherlock's face changes; he struggles a bit to get up, but Mycroft places a warning hand against his chest. 

"I am sorry. So sorry, Mycroft mine." There are actually unshed tears glistening in his brother’s eyes. 

"Sh… It's alright. Dearest one." 

. 

. 

"We can't take him back to Baker Street." Marshall states. "He's practically an invalid. And, John…"

"I would love to take him, but it will start looking suspicious." Mycroft interrupts, not too keen on being completely dependent on John Watson for his brother's care. In the grand scale of things the flatmate has done enough harm to his brother regardless of how repentant he's been since Sherrinford. 

"He can stay with me then. People would expect that. You know I work, but my Mum will be around when I won't be there. She's practically retired, anyways. You can visit him without worrying the nights I am home. You two will have more freedom than at Baker Street. Mrs. H would also be willing to help out, I would imagine."

"You are really too kind, Marshall."

"It's the least I can do. Really."

. 

. 

"We will take you to Marshall's for a week or two – little brother." Mycroft informs his brother, who is sitting upright in a plush armchair for the first time since his surgery in a regular hospital room. 

"Why can't I come to yours?" Sherlock asks, slightly pouting. 

"Because, brother mine – it would look suspicious – if you went to mine instead of your…" Mycroft sighs deeply, but his brother's hand rests lightly on his arm. 

"I know. I am sorry. I just feel so needy and sick and weak… And I fucking hate it. Mycroft…"

"It's okay to feel all of those things. You've been cooped up here long enough to drive the most patient of men crazy. And stop apologizing. It feels –" 

"Out of character, dearest mine? After all of those lectures you've given me over the years…" Sherlock weakly laughs. 

"I miss my brat."

"Mm… I am sure you will be regretting these words…"

"I might, but it would mean my darling is getting better."

"You still love me."

"Forever and always."

"Mpph." Mycroft's kiss catches Sherlock by surprise. A genuinely happy smile – the first one Mycroft had seen in too long – graces his brother's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RBCs - red blood cells
> 
> ex-lap - exploratory laparotomy: when a surgeon opens the abdomen up and literally explores to fix whatever is killing the patient
> 
> Not actually sure how the Royal London would handle trauma patients, but this is based a bit on my own experiences.


	24. Chapter 24

It had taken both Mycroft and Marshall to get Sherlock from the hospital to Marshall's flat. After being situated on his fake boyfriend's very comfortable couch, Mycroft had kissed him on the lips and left for work, while Marshall had stayed until his Mum had shown up and had gone back to the hospital. He feels utterly useless; a burden for everyone. 

"You hungry?" Marshall's Mum asks – after having satisfied herself with the general cleanliness of the flat. 

Sherlock shakes his head. Marshall's Mum is a formidable woman; short, with graying raven hair and had a surprising amount of feistiness in her. A first generation Brit who originally hailed from Shanghai. A lady who had survived lean times under Chairman Mao's regime and climbed her way to London with barely anything. Who absolutely loves her only son. 

"You must eat. You were a beanpole when I first met you – and the gunshot wound –" she lapses into Shanghainese for the latter. "has not helped at all."

The sternness in her brown eyes inform Sherlock that a fight on this stance is going to take more energy than Sherlock could afford to spare. He settles for reluctant nodding. 

"Socrates, leave those slippers alone." She berates as the German Shepard had taken one of Sherlock's in his mouth. Contritely, the dog drops the footwear and whines after her. She then turns back towards Sherlock and says, "Good. Some pork bone soup with wintermelon should do for a man with a recently pieced together colon."

Without waiting for Sherlock to say another word, she wanders off to the kitchen – and Sherlock could hear her rummaging through Marshall's fridge. 

Sighing, he sinks back further on the couch – tucking the quilt tight around him. He still feels weak; his abdomen still throbs with dull pain and the drain that the surgeons had left in him is rather almost unbearably uncomfortable. The ibuprofen and paracetamol that he gets – alternating every four hours only takes the edge off the pain. He had forgone the opioids – the dose that the hospital had given him had barely done much in consideration to his heightened tolerance. His fault, but still. 

What he really wants is Mycroft. His fingers twitch – urging him to reach for his phone and text his brother. But he doesn't want to be a bigger nuisance than he already is. At the end of the day, it had been his split-second decision that had led to his present state. He had no regrets. Lestrade had given him faith and direction during a time when he had desperately needed some; allowing him to flourish as the Consulting Detective he is. 

God. How he needs; he needs Mycroft like he needs air. Wants to be in big brother's strong arms. Feel his skin against his own. It's not sex that he craves; he misses the intimacy. They've had snatches of it in the hospital: furtive kisses and small caresses – but nothing more. 

So, he will spend his days languishing as an invalid – he sighs. His mobile, the remote to Marshall’s widescreen TV and even his laptop lay close at hand on the coffee table next to a vase full of red carnations from Mycroft. His belly rumbles when he smells the enticing scents originating from the stove. Maybe… he could try a little something.

His phone vibrates. With a groan, he reaches over to pick it up. 

_ How are you settling in? MH _

_ I'm okay. SH _

_ Do you want me to come over later? MH _

_ Is there some pressing matter, brother? SH _

_ Be honest. MH _

_ Fine. SH _

_ I need you. SH _

_ I always do. SH _

_ I don't ever want to be apart from you again. SH _

_ Of course. MH _

_ I will be there. And I will stay the night and perhaps longer depending on the circumstances. Marshall will permit it. MH _

_ Thank you. SH _

_ And… Sherlock. It goes both ways. I need you too. MH _

_ It’s not a weakness to need someone. MH _

_ Our philosophies on caring seemed to have changed quite a bit… brother dear. SH _

_ Do you regret it? MH _

_ No. Of course not. Never. SH  _

_ I can’t imagine living without this… without you. SH _

_ Brother… MH  _

_ We will talk later. I will bring you something to tempt your appetite. MH  _

_ See you. <3 SH _

“Your soup. Some rice. Eat.” Marshall’s Mum marches up with a tray containing an aromatic clear broth with pieces of pork, slices of wintermelon and other miscellaneous vegetables, a small bowl of rice, a saucerful of soy sauce (for the pieces of tender pork) and a glass of slightly sweetened soy milk that Marshall prefers. 

Obediently, Sherlock takes the spoon and sips carefully at the hot liquid. It tastes infinitely better compared to the hospital foods he had been subsisting on in the last few days. He had forced himself to eat as he did not like any of the other options the doctors had threatened him with to force nutrition into his battered body. “It’s good.” 

Marshall’s Mum beams. “Good. Eat up. Anything you would like to eat in the next few days? I buy groceries.”

“Soupy things. Surprise me.” Sherlock says, wanting to taste more of the culinary talents. It would keep him interested in eating… even if his appetite is minimal. 

“Of course. I could make ramen – Zhangwei would like that. Or – I hear you like Korean… a nice pork bone soup with potato and kimchi. Or perhaps a hotpot? My son likes that too.”

“Anything.” 

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to make dinner – my brother is bringing something for the three of us.”

“I will just leave the leftovers in the fridge – Marshall might want a late night snack.” 

Socrates – at this point – leaps up the couch and snuggles in Sherlock’s quilted lap. Sherlock’s hand automatically finds its way into his soft fur.

“You like dogs.” 

“I love them.” Sherlock says earnestly. “Sometimes I like them better than people.”

“Zhangwei as well. I despaired for him. It gets harder and harder to keep and make friend when you get older. Especially with him being surgeon. Long hours. Even though ENT is better quality of life than other surgical specialties.” 

“You must be proud of him.” Sherlock finds himself saying. 

She smiles – saying the first sentence in Shanghainese. “He’s a rascal. I had him when I was still in Shanghai with my first husband. I brought him over to England when he was very young. It was tough life. I worked in restaurant. Not as cook but as waitress. Minimum wage. And then I met my second husband. Life got better after that.” 

“Ah. I didn’t realize that.”

“It was a long time ago.” She sighs. “A distant memory. These days I just manage my boys. They keep me busy.”

“My Mummy would never do this for me. If she did – she would be absolutely suffocating.”

“Ah… it’s culture too… Sherlock. But I like to do what I can to make Zhangwei’s life a little easier. He work hard. Dear boy. Although sometimes I know I suffocate him too. It’s difficult to find the line between too little and too much. I am happy he met you – he’s definitely much happy.”

“Thanks. I am glad I met him too.”

.

.

"Mycroft mine!" Sherlock calls out when his brother steps foot into the flat with his umbrella in one hand and two bags of takeout in the other. 

Mycroft smiles at his brother – feeling the tediousness of the workday vacate his body as Marshall reaches for the bags. 

Tian the Irish Setter sniffs curiously at the takeout – her tail wagging merrily behind her while Marshall admonishes. "No, girl – you just ate!" 

Nodding his thanks to the surgeon, Mycroft walks over to Sherlock after removing his shoes and placing his coat and umbrella on the coat stand – still looking pale and wan. His brother is lying supine on the couch – his body wrapped completely in a thick quilt – with his inky dark curls poking out wildly at one end. He cannot help noticing that Sherlock looks rather like a belated Christmas present; the large synthetic tree with its tinsel, lights and ornaments beside the couch had not been taken down yet, despite it being past New Year's. 

"You look like a Victorian era damsel, my dear." Mycroft grabs a nearby chair and sits – letting a hand rest on his lover's cheek. 

"it was fashionable to be ill then." Sherlock says rather coquettishly, nuzzling his face against Mycroft’s palm. Teasingly he asks. "Are you one of my many suitors seeking my hand in marriage?"

"Hmm… Any dragons you want slaughtered, my dear? Any rivals I should prove myself against? What ever should I do to earn your favour?" 

"Kiss me." Sherlock pulls the quilt down a bit – exposing his head completely.

Smiling, Mycroft bends down to brush his lips against his brother's cheek. Sherlock pouts – having had wanted to be kissed on the lips. Mycroft had originally wanted to tease his brother about being easy for a Victorian girl, but those pouting pink lips cry for being kissed. So he swoops down again to bring his own lips to his brother's – giving the sweetest of kisses. 

"Mm…" Sherlock sighs happily when they break apart. "Missed you."

"God, you two are saccharinely sweet. Let's eat!" Marshall hands over a plate containing a selection of Angelo's finest dishes. 

Mycroft twirls long strands of pasta immersed in fragrant oils and truffle and spears a shrimp with a fork – also kindly provided by Marshall. He carefully brings the forkful to his brother. 

'Not really hungry, My…"

Mycroft sighs. Eating has been a battle ever since Sherlock had been extubated. "It's your favourite though."

"I know." Sherlock replies forlornly – turning around slightly to get a better view. "I also know I should eat – but I just don't want to."

Mycroft settles the plate and fork onto the coffee table before saying. "Maybe you need an incentive, brother dear." His fingers find their way into Sherlock's curls. "A kiss per bite?" 

"Mm… maybe a few then." Sherlock replies as Mycroft picks the plate and fork back up. His brother slowly pulls the food off the twines of the fork with his mouth and chews. 

When Sherlock swallows, Mycroft says "That wasn't so bad, wasn't it?" before leaving over to kiss his brother's forehead. 

Sherlock had a few more bites of noodles, along with a quarter of a bowl of minestrone soup before refusing. At that point, Mycroft had noticed that Marshall and both dogs had left the living room – leaving them with their privacy. He himself then eats while his brother looks on. When Mycroft grabs the dessert, Sherlock shakes his head as well. 

"Just a teeny bite, dearest? I know that you love Angelo's tiramisu."

"Feed me like a baby bird – brother mine." With a grunt, Sherlock sits up a bit.

Mycroft grabs a spoon that Marshall had left on the coffee table at some point. Scooping some of the delicious tiramisu into the spoon – he puts it into his mouth. Carefully, he presses his lips to Sherlock’s while using his hands to stabilize them both and pushes the treat into his brother’s mouth. Really – it turns into an excuse to French kiss – with his beloved’s talented tongue tangling so sensually against his own. Damn, they haven’t kissed like this in what feels like forever. They break apart with a gasp, and Mycroft repeats the kiss – more Italian than French – with another morsel of the decadent treat. One of Sherlock’s hands reach out and cups Mycroft’s stubbly cheek – it has been weeks since Mycroft had slept in his own bed – having spent those nights haunting Sherlock’s hospital room. 

“God – brother… you must so exhausted.” Sherlock realizes as he lets his hand travel lower – caressing Mycroft’s chest through his slightly crinkled waistcoat and shirt. “Some holidays…” 

“Don’t worry about me – dearest.” Mycroft runs his fingers soothingly against Sherlock’s scalp – using two of the digits to play with a curl. “Just focus on getting better. I…” He swallows. “I am just glad you are here. Here with me.”

“Same. I didn’t want to die… brother.” Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s free hand with his own. “You are staying the night – aren’t you?” His eyes are imploring.

“Yes. I will have to go home at some point tomorrow to grab some more clothes… and I will come back – it’s Saturday.”

“Oh – I won’t be bored.”

“No you won’t.” Mycroft gives his brother another peck. 

.

.

“Mycroft… please don’t reject me like this…” Sherlock whispers sadly when they are under thick blankets in Marshall’s spare room after they had showered together. His brother had seemed reluctant to hold him. “I need you.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you – brother mine.” Mycroft gingerly wraps both his arms around his brother – mindful of the three new scars – the vertical ex-lap scar that bisects Sherlock’s abdomen, and the entry and exit scars of the bullet. He bends his neck to kiss his brother’s forehead in apology.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s going to hurt regardless if you touch them or not.” Sherlock reassures. With some effort he shifts his body to face Mycroft. He relaxes into the loving embrace of his brother – feeling the comforting feeling of those strong yet gentle arms around his torso, needing the skin-to-skin contact. “Fuck – I am more scar tissue than regular flesh – aren’t I?”

“Just please stop getting hurt – will you?” 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock tilts his head so that his iridescent eyes are looking directly into Mycroft’s own. “I’ve been thinking of something.”

“Have you?”

“I am going to retire. From legwork. I can’t keep doing this.” Sherlock says a-matter-of-factly. “I can’t keep doing this to you. I heard you – you know – when I was sedated with benzos and fentanyl and fuck knows what else in that dreary SICU.” Mycroft had actually broke down and cried at his bedside at some point – and Sherlock had never ever heard big brother cry like that in his entire lifetime. It had disturbed him. Not to mention the contents of the other one-sided conversations that his lover had – begging for him to come back. To not leave him behind. It had been enough to break the hardest of hearts. “I want to live and die old with you – big brother.”

“Sherlock… I can’t ask you to give up your career…” 

“Brother. I’ve made up my mind.” Sherlock says – with absolute resolution. “At the end of the day – what really matters to you?”

“You.” Mycroft finds himself gripping both of Sherlock’s hands tightly. “Always you.” 

“You as well.” Sherlock’s voice is fierce. His eyes shine with determination, looking the sharpest he had looked since his injury. “I think we should do it. Leave. I know that it hurt you – Mycroft – that you couldn’t be with me as my lover in the hospital. But of course – you need to come to that conclusion yourself. I don’t want you to resent me in the years to come.”

“No – Sherlock. Never. God. I thought about it when we were in the hospital. Something needs to change. Neither of us are happy. I don’t think either of us have been truly happy ever since I came back home from Beijing. And I know – we brought up the idea months ago – I… with some help from Anthea have been planning. Of course… I’ve been planning ever since we had gotten together… just in case we ever got outed in the public sphere. But it will take some time to finalize the details and everything. We will have to find somewhere to lay low for a few months to a year – and then we can roam the world to our heart’s content… of course we can never come back to Great Britain…”

Sherlock smiles – happy that Mycroft had given the idea serious thought. “I guess we better come up with a list of things we want to do in the UK before we leave it for good.” 

“But – Sherlock – you do realize you are giving up more than your career? Your friends amongst others?”

“I do know that. But – Mycroft – you are everything to me. I never want to be separated from you ever again.”

“Neither do I.” Mycroft kisses his brother’s errant curls before saying. “Let’s go to sleep – little brother. There’s lots of time for scheming later – not to mention we cannot go anywhere until you’ve fully recovered from your latest heroic gesture.”

“Mm… Love you – dearest mine. You are the best – you know.” Sherlock mumbles just as falls asleep in his lover’s arms for the first time in weeks.

.

.

“Hi Molly.” Sherlock suppresses the urge to sigh as the pathologist sits down next to him. The visit had been rather sudden – Mycroft and he had been spending their Saturday morning cuddling in bed before Marshall had knocked and told them that Molly was coming upstairs. Mycroft had gotten up and hid himself in Marshall’s room with a cup of tea – as he had been indecent while Sherlock had rearranged himself back on the couch with some help. Things have been strange and a bit strained between Molly and himself ever since those unpleasant games at Sherrinford.

“You didn’t tell me you were at the hospital!” Her eyes gaze sternly at him. “Greg –”

“Who is Greg?” 

“Sherlock – this is ridiculous. You jumped in front of a bullet for him – and you still can’t remember his first name?” 

“Not important.”

“But anyways – Sherlock – I thought we were friends! Now that I think about it – you hardly ever come by to do experiments over the last few months…”

“I haven’t done any experiments with cadaver parts since May – Molly. And I am sorry for not telling you about my injury – I just don’t want people fussing over me in a place where I cannot escape without being written up.” 

The apology seemed to placate Molly. She smiles warmly. “So… how are you doing?”

“Alright. As well as a man could be after being shot in the colon. And… how are you?” These polite syllables feel strange in his mouth. 

“Okay. I am seeing somebody too now – so you don’t have to worry about me mooning over you…” Something in her demeanour makes her words sound unconvincing.

“Surely not someone from IT…?” 

Molly gives a grin. “No, no… Jeff’s a researcher. Runs a lab at UCL. He’s an experimental physicist.” She actually giggles. “His bum is just as nice as yours.”

“Now that’s a lie.” Marshall interjects. “No one has a better ass than our ‘Lock here. I will fight you on it.” He brings over glasses of soy milk and a plateful of mooncake. Turning his head, he asks Sherlock. “Salted egg yolk or plain?” 

“I will try the plain. It’s white lotus – is it not? Sweet?”

“Yup, darling – let me cut you a slice.” Marshall efficiently cuts a cake with a plastic knife. Spearing a piece with the knife, he offers it to Sherlock who eats it, savouring the sweetness. 

“Thank you, Marshall.” Molly sips from her glass, and looks away when the surgeon pecks Sherlock affectionately on the cheek. “And fine – Jeff’s bottom is as equally as amazing as Sherlock’s.” 

“I will take that. But I highly doubt it.” 

The conversation – as light and superficial as it remains – goes on too long before Marshall finally says to Molly. “Sherlock is still rather weak – I can see that he’s tiring. You can always come back another day.” 

“Ah – I can take a hint.” Molly gives Sherlock a rather sad look. “I guess I will see you around?”

“I guess.” Sherlock replies rather listlessly as Molly goes to collect her things. 

When the pathologist finally leaves, the door to Marshall’s room opens – two eager dogs leap out after having been confined in there for the better part of the hour and Mycroft follows them in his deliciously rumpled shirt that he had slept in the night before. 

“She isn’t over you.” Mycroft observes after sitting down on the seat that Molly had just vacated. 

“No… I don’t think so.” Sherlock sighs deeply. “And… Mycroft mine – I tire of having to hide you in dark corners…”

“Hey – my room is quite nice!” Marshall refutes. 

“It is a nice room.” Mycroft finds himself saying inanely – having spent the hour using Marshall’s desktop to get some work done. But – yes, like Sherlock – he is rather tired of having to pretend that they weren’t together. This situation had been another reminder. As immature as it seems – Mycroft had wanted Ms. Hooper to see who had really won Sherlock’s heart. “Me too, dearest mine – but alas, what can we do?” He then gives his brother a meaningful look –  _ I swear it won’t be like this all the time; I promise. _

Sherlock nods just as Marshall asks, “Should we get some delivery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2020 everyone! 
> 
> SICU - surgical intensive care unit


End file.
